OF  THE 

ni^lVEKSlTY 


SOME     HAPPENINGS 
HORACE  ANNESLEY  VACHELL 


By  HORACE  ANNESLEY  VACHELL 

NOVELS 

some  happenings 

fishpingle 

the  triumph  of  tim 

spragge's  canyon 

quinneys' 

LOOT 

BLINDS  DOWN 
JOHN  VERNEY 
THE  OTHER  SIDE 

PLAYS 

quinneys* 

searchlights 

jelf's 

GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


SOME 
HAPPENINGS 


BY 

HORACE  ANNESLEY  VACHELL 

Author  of 

"Fishpingle/'  ''The  Triumph 

of  Tim,"  etc. 


NEW  XS^  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1918, 
By  George  H,  Daran  Company 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


sovv 


GEORGE  MALCOLM  HEATHCOTE 


M597424 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  THE  SHADOW  ON  THE  BLIND     -----        II 

n  THE  CHILDREN  OF  HATE  ------        26 

III  AN  AMAZING  CHRISTMAS  EVE    -----        38 

IV  THE  EIGHTH  YEAR  -------48 

V  THE  BLACK  VELVET  CAP  ------         65 

VI   messiter's  sister 88 

VII  THE  SUPREME  EVENT        -           -           -           -           -           -I08 

VIII  fenella's  bounder 127 

IX    A  CUTLET  FOR  A  CUTLET 147 

X  THE  WAITRESS  AT  SANTY            -----      161 

XI    THE  DEATH  MASK -      175 

XII  THE  LACQUER  CABINET    -           -           -           -           -           -197 

XIII  A  BRETON  LOVE-STORY     -  -  -  -  -  -215 

XIV  jimmy's  REST  CURE  ------      234 

XV  BEANFEASTERS          -           -           -           -           -           -           -25O 

XVI  THE  GRAND  SLAM     -------      261 

XVII  bingo's  FLUTTER     -           -           -           -           -           -           -281 

XVni  BULWINKLE  &C0.    -           -           -           -           -           -           -      30O 

XIX    DOG-LEG  RAPIDS 317 


vu 


SOME  HAPPENINGS 


SOME    HAPPENINGS 


THE  SHADOW  ON  THE  BLIND 


HOBO  GEORGE  was  beach-combing  at  Catalina  Is- 
land when  word  came  to  him,  through  a  somewhat 
tainted  source,  that  his  father  had  struck  it  "rich."  Really 
convincing  details  were  lacking,  but  Hobo  intended  to  sup- 
ply these  for  himself  and  by  himself.  The  old  man,  so 
he  heard,  had  bought  some  cattle  and  hogs,  a  new  barn  had 
been  built,  and  an  old  house  repainted. 

**Can  you  beat  it  ?"  exclaimed  Hobo. 

His  companion,  who  had  actually  seen  these  amazing  "im- 
provements," hazarded  the  conjecture  that  the  old  man 
might  be  fixing  things  to  get  married  again.  Hobo  dis- 
missed this  as  unthinkable. 

"I  know  Pop,"  he  affirmed  positively,  "better'n  he  knows 
hisself.  He  didn't  hev  no  box  at  the  opery  with  Maw,  far 
from  it.  No  harmony,  ye  understand;  all  give  from  Maw 
Tind  all  take  from  him." 

His  companion  looked  puzzled. 

"All  give  from  her?    What  she  give,  Hobo?** 

George  replied  promptly : 

"First,  last,  and  all  the  time— hell !" 

Next  day  Hobo  crossed  the  seas  and  took  the  north  road. 

II 


Some  Happenings 

He  was  no  tramp,  in  the  professional  sense  of  the  word, 
but  he  had  consorted  much  with  tramps^  and  knew  the  tricks 
of  the  trade.  He  meant  to  beat  his  way  to  the  old  home- 
stead some  five  hundred  miles  away.    He  did  it. 

During  his  journeyings  curiosity  consumed  him.  He  was 
vaguely  sensible,  also,  of  the  lure  of  home — a  home,  such 
as  it  was,  which  he  had  left  suddenly  and  under  regrettable 
circumstances,  with  the  injunction  not  to  come  back.  He 
had  intended  to  obey  this  injunction. 

*'Had  the  old  man  struck  it  rich,  and,  if  so,  how?" 

Of  one  thing  he  was  quite  sure :  the  curiosity  which  con- 
sumed him  would  not  be  slaked  by  the  author  of  his  being. 

The  day  dawned  when  he  beheld  the  "improvements." 
Yes,  money  had  paid  for  them — unearned  money,  because 
the  old  man  was  incapable  of  doing  more  than  eking  out 
a  bare  existence  upon  a  rough  mountain  ranch.  As  a  miner, 
in  the  good  old  days  of  rich  placers,  he  might  have  pros- 
pered ;  as  a  farmer  he  was  honourably  known,  far  and  wide, 
as  one  of  the  many  who  never  got  there. 

But  he  had  got  there,  apparently,  with  both  feet. 

In  a  saloon  in  Highville,  a  collection  of  shacks  situated 
some  five  miles  from  his  sire's  domain.  Hobo  gleaned  more 
information  from  the  bar-keep,  who  was  what  the  French 
call  ''une  bonne  gazette  du  pays/'  The  bar-keep  did  not 
recognise  Hobo.  Probably  his  own  mother,  had  she  been 
alive,  would  have  failed  to  identify  her  son. 

Hobo  listened  attentively  to  the  bar-keep  and  others.  Two 
of  these  were  gamblers  of  the  ''tinhorn"  brand,  with  evil 
reputations  as  bad  men.  One  and  all  were  unanimous  in 
declaring  that  the  old  man  had  the  dust. 

''Dust?"  repeated  Hobo.  "Ther'  ain't  no  dust  left  in  these 
parts." 

^'He  has  it,"  said  the  bar-keep. 

"Mebbe,"  said  Hobo  tentatively,  "the  old  man  plastered" 

12 


The  Shadow  on  the  Blind 

(mortgaged)   "the  ranch  to  pay  for  these  yere  improve- 
ments ?" 

"Not  he,"  replied  the  bar-keep.  "A  friend  of  mine  took 
a  squint  at  the  records  just  to  see.  If  the  old  man  has  a 
weakness,  it's  bein'  overly  fond  o'  braggin'  that  what  he 
owns  is  paid  fer." 

"Thet's  so,"  assented  Hobo. 

"You  know  him?" 

Hobo  answered  evasively : 

"I  ain't  seen  him  fer  ten  years." 

"Wal — he  ain't  changed  any.  And  ther's  another  thmg, 
boys.  Once  a  miner,  allers  a  miner.  The  old  man  begun 
life  in  the  placers.  He  noses  about  these  hills  with  his  gun, 
but  I  reckon  he's  lookin'  for  gold  most  o'  the  time." 

One  of  the  gamblers  said  reflectively: 

"Boys,  I'd  like  to  have  half  the  dust  that  has  passed 
over  this  yere  bar." 

"You  bet!"  replied  the  bar-keep. 

This  was  in  allusion  to  the  days  of  yore,  the  golden  days 
long  since  gone  by,  when  Highville  had  been  Highville,  a 
mining  town  of  five  thousand  men  transmuted  now  into 
dust  other  than  that  for  which  they  bartered  souls  and 
bodies. 

Another  gambler  murmured  tentatively: 

"He  may  have  found  a  cache." 

"Quite  likely,"  replied  the  bar-keep.  "That's  my  own  idee. 
If  he  came  around  any,  we'd  be  better  posted;  but  he  sets 
to  home.  Two  trips  he's  made,  and  nary  a  word  about 
'em.  Cunning  as  a  coyote !  If  it  is  dust,  more'n  likely  he 
makes  a  bee-line  for  San  Francisco,  for  the  Mint.  He  paid 
for  his  improvements  in  gold  twenties." 

Hobo  noticed  that  the  gamblers  licked  their  lips,  like  hun- 
gry hounds ;  but  the  talk  wandered  back  into  other  channels. 

Hobo  went  forth  into  the  night. 

13 


Some  Happenings 

And  he  slept  cosily  in  his  sire's  new  barn,  amongst 
fragrant  hay,  with  the  pungent  odour  of  tarweed  in  his 
nostrils.  So  snug  did  he  lie  that  he  overslept  himself,  and 
was  discovered  curled  up  by  his  father,  and  incontinently 
cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void  under  a  copious  torrent  of  lan- 
guage more  easily  imagined  than  printable.  Hobo  fled.  As 
he  crawled  through  a  barbed  wire  fence  he  muttered  to 
himself:  *'He  ain't  changed  any;  and,  by  Jukes,  he  didn't 
know  me— m^^  his  only  son  and  heir !" 

He  spent  that  day  upon  the  ranch,  playing  spy  upon  his 
father;  but  the  old  man  never  wandered  far  from  the  cor- 
rals. Hobo  noticed  that  he  lived  alone,  doing  his  own 
"chores."  When  night  fell.  Hobo  crawled  back  into  the 
barn  and  finished  what  was  left  of  a  ''poke  out"  (cold  food) 
handed  to  him  by  a  good  Samaritan  some  twenty-four  hours 
before.  After  this  light  supper  he  stalked,  clutched,  and 
strangled  a  nice  young  chicken  asleep  upon  its  perch.  He 
found  also  three  new-laid  eggs  and  a  sack  of  potatoes.  He 
was  pocketing  some  potatoes,  when  he  perceived  a  light  in 
the  house.  Knowing  his  sire's  habits,  this  surprised  him. 
The  light  came  from  the  sitting-room  through  a  drawn 
blind,  and  on  that  blind,  plainly  silhouetted,  black  upon 
amber,  was  the  shadow  of  his  father's  head. 

Whatever  was  the  old  man  up  to  ? 

Hobo  kept  vigil  for  some  three  hours.  Then  the  light 
was  extinguished.  Next  morning  Hobo  left  the  barn  be- 
times, taking  his  provant  with  him.  In  a  snug  gulch,  far 
from  human  eyes,  he  built  his  fire  and  cooked  his  chicken, 
with  potatoes  "on  the  side."  After  a  full  meal  he  smoked 
for  an  hour,  and  then  fell  asleep.  Curiosity  permeated  his 
dreams.  It  became  more  importunate  when  he  awoke.  He 
decided  to  allay  irritation,  both  physical  and  mental,  by 
taking  a  bath.  It  was  a  very  hot  day  in  August,  and  he 
remembered  a  pool  in  the  creek  wherein  he  went  swimming 
14 


The  Shadow  on  the  Blind 

as  a  boy.  He  might  have  bathed  in  half-a-dozen  pools,  but 
fancy — or  was  it  something  else  ? — led  him  uphill  to  this  par- 
ticular spot.  As  he  walked,  glimpses  of  a  not  unhappy 
childhood  were  vouchsafed  to  him.  He  had  been  a  foothill 
boy,  running  wild  amongst  wild  flowers  and  wild  creatures. 
After  many  years  he  was  in  the  Paradise  which  he  had 
reckoned  to  be  his  own.  In  it  and  yet  hopelessly  out  of  it. 
He  found  the  pool,  but  there  was  no  water  in  it.  The 
creek,  a  mountain  torrent  in  the  winter,  had  changed  its 
channel.  Hobo  sat  down.  The  creek  was  singing  an 
inviting  song  some  fifty  yards  away;  but  the  desire  to 
bathe  had  been  side-tracked.  Hobo  sat  staring  at  the  sand 
and  gravel  at  the  bottom  of  his  former  bath.  His  father 
had  been  at  work  here.    Why? 

At  this  moment  the  insistent  problem  of  a  fortnight 
was  solved.  The  bar-keep  had  guessed  aright.  His  father 
had  found  gold  in  this  silt— gold  washed  out  of  the  quartz 
formations  above.  In  early  days  gold  had  been  taken  out 
of  this  creek  in  large  quantities. 

Hobo  whistled  softly  to  himself.  The  unaccustomed 
light  in  the  sitting-room  illumined  his  understanding.  The 
old  man  was  by  nature  secretive  and  cautious.  To  rock  the 
gold  out  of  this  silt  in  the  daytime  meant  discovery.  With 
infinite  labour  and  patience  he  must  have  carried  the  sand 
and  gravel  to  his  house.  At  night  he  extracted  from  the 
silt  the  precious  dust.  In  San  Francisco  he  exchanged  that 
dust  for  the  big,  shining  twenties. 

Hobo  whistled  the  same  tune  many  times.  Then  it 
occurred  to  him  that  he  might  be  discovered  by  his  sire. 
So  he  withdrew,  still  whistling,  to  a  patch  of  chaparral 
which  commanded  a  view  of  the  sometime  pool.  He  kept 
careful  watch,  but  nobody  appeared.  Probably,  so  he  re- 
flected, the  old  man  worked  here  by  moonlight,  removing 
enough   gravel  to   keep  him  busy  when  the   nights   were 

15 


Some  Happenings 

dark.  He  was  not  one  to  run  risks — a  reason,  perhaps, 
why  he  had  not  prospered  as  a  farmer. 

Presently  Hobo  evolved  a  plan.  He  must  ingratiate 
himself  with  his  sire — no  easy  task.  To  return  boldly  as 
the  repentant  prodigal  with  an  eye  upon  the  fatted  calf 
would  be  courting  disaster.  On  the  other  hand,  the  suc- 
cessful carrying-out  of  his  plan  included  a  sacrifice  of  what 
he  deemed  his  most  precious  possession — leisure.  He 
would  have  to  work,  and  he  abhorred  work. 

He  was  frowning,  not  whistling,  as  he  wended  his  way 
back  to  the  house. 

His  sire  saw  him  approaching  the  corral.  Hobo  sauntered 
up  with  his  pipe  in  his  mouth. 

"What  you  want?"  growled  the  father. 

*'Work,"  repHed  the  son.  "I  aim  to  pay  my  debts.  I 
owe  you  for  a  night's  lodgin'.  Lemme  split  up  some 
stove-wood." 

As  he  spoke  he  wondered  whether  some  familiar  inflec- 
tion of  his  voice  might  betray  him.  The  old  man  said 
grimly : 

'Thar's  the  wood-pile." 

Without  another  word  Hobo  went  to  work.  He  laboured 
diligently,  knowing  the  short,  sure  cut  to  his  sire's  heart. 
He  had  split  wood  as  pay  for  many  a  meal,  and  he  knew 
to  a  splinter  what  was  expected  of  the  ordinary  tramp. 
The  old  man  milked  a  couple  of  cows  and  attended  to  his 
horses  and  hogs.  Hobo  went  on  splitting  wood.  After  a 
couple  of  hours'  work  he  saw  his  father  approaching  him. 
This  was  the  fateful  moment,  and  Hobo  governed  himself 
accordingly.     He  went  on  wielding  his  axe  with  vigour. 

"Who  air  ye?"  asked  the  father. 

The  son  answered  cheerfully: 

*TVIr.  Nobody  from  back  o'  Nowhere." 

"Jest  so.  A  stranger?"  Hobo  nodded.  He  was  noting 
i6 


The  Shadow  on  the  Blind 

signs  of  age  in  his  father — the  dimmed  eyes,  the  bowed 
back,  the  tired,  trembhng  hands.  The  old  man  continued 
aggressively:     ''What  you  doin'  in  these  hills?" 

Hobo  laughed.  As  he  did  so,  the  father  started.  He 
had  not  heard  that  laugh  for  ten  years.  His  face  relaxed 
a  little. 

"I  like  the  foothills,"  said  Hobo.  '1  was  raised  in  'em. 
I  like  the  smell  of  'em." 

^'Better'n  the  smell  o'  whisky?'* 

*'Much  better.    I  ain't  no  use  fer  whisky." 

"Mebbe  I  fired  you  outer  my  barn  overly  quick  yester- 
day. I  took  ye  for  a  hobo;  and  I'm  scairt  sick  o'  folks 
smokin'  in  barns." 

''Don't  blame  ye;  it's  a  mighty  nice  barn.  Ther's  one 
the  dead  spit  o'  that  in  my  old  home,  an'  plum  full  o'  jest 
such  sweet  hay." 

"W^al,  you  kin  sleep  in  it  agen,  if  ye've  a  mind  to." 

"That's  O.K.,  pervided  I  do  yer  chores  to-morrer 
mornin'." 

"I  allow  yer  a  whale  to  work.  Supper'll  be  ready  in 
jest  one  hour." 

The  old  man  went  into  the  house.  Hobo  smiled  and  lit 
his  pipe. 

"It's  a  cinch,"  he  murmured. 


II 

A  week  passed. 

Hobo  was  working  for  his  board,  and  working  hard. 
The  old  man  attended  to  that.  He  slept  in  the  barn  and 
took  his  meals  in  the  kitchen.  Each  night  the  lamp  burned 
in  the  sitting-room;  each  night  Hobo  saw  the  shadow  of 
his  father's  head,  black  against  amber,  upon  the  drawn 
blind.    He  watched  and  waited,  biding  his  chance,  knowing 

17 


Some  Happenings 

that  the  right  moment  would  come,  and  with  it  a  rich 
father's  forgiveness.  Oddly  enough,  for  the  first  time 
in  his  idle  life,  appetite  for  work  came  with  the  working. 
Hobo  realised  that  he  was  working  for  himself — a  fact 
which  completely  changed  his  point  of  view.  Day  by  day, 
the  thought  that  this  would  be  his  ranch  in  the  fullness 
of  time  grew  upon  him.  He  stripped  his  cows  carefully, 
conscious  of  former  shortcomings  in  this  regard.  He 
mended  fence  without  orders,  duly  sensible  that  his  cattle 
might  escape.  He  picked  ''stickers"  out  of  his  horses' 
mouths,  and  whistled  when  he  groomed  them.  And  all 
the  time  he  knew  that  he  was  earning  not  money  but  a 
tacit  approval  which  meant  money.  Each  day  relaxed  the 
indurated  sinews  of  his  sire's  tongue;  but  of  the  precious 
dust,  not  a  whisper ! 

But  it  was  there.  He  knew  that.  He  had  guessed 
aright.  The  old  miner  had  not  covered  his  tracks.  They 
led  straight  from  the  creek  to  the  house.  Hobo  had  at- 
tempted more  than  once  to  explore  the  house,  but  his 
father  was  too  cunning  for  him.  One  door  led  from  the 
kitchen  into  the  house,  and  that  door  was  locked.  The 
front  door,  never  used,  was  locked  also,  and  heavily 
barred.  And  Hobo  never  doubted  that  his  father  was 
always  watching  him,  keenly  alert,  and  quite  ready  to 
"pull  a  gun"  without  asking  unnecessary  questions.  Let 
it  be  said  frankly  that  Hobo  had  no  intention  of  robbing 
his  father.  Rehabilitation  had  become  a  fixed  idea.  The 
vagabondage  of  the  previous  ten  years  lay  behind  him.  He 
envisaged  peace  and  plenty  at  home. 

At  least  twenty  times  a  day  he  murmured  to  himself: 
"It's  a  cinch." 

Finally,   the   moment   came.      Father   and   son   were   at 
supper,  warmed  by  good  food  and  hot  coffee.     The  gambit 
was  opened  by  the  old  man.     He  said  abruptly: 
i8 


The  Shadow  on  the  Blind 

"I  had  a  son  like  you  onct." 

"Is  thet  so?" 

"Yep." 

"Dead?" 

"Dead  ter— me." 

**A  scallywag,  I  reckon?" 

"Of  the  worst  kind." 

"Throwin'  bokays  at  me,  ain't  ye?  Why,  if  it  don't 
worry  you  to  answer  sech  questions,  d'ye  say  that  this  yere 
scallywag,  now  dead  to  you,  was  like  me?" 

The  old  man  finished  his  coffee. 

"George,"  he  replied  drawlingly,  "hed  eyes  like  yourn 
and  the  same  kind  o'  laugh.  He  was  stout-built,  was 
George.  You  'mind  me  of  him.  Yep.  My  George  was 
spoiled  in  the  bakin'.  What  was  worst  in  the  boy  come 
from  his  Maw." 

Hobo,  not  quite  at  his  ease,  said  coolly  enough : 

"You  lost  track  of  him?" 

"Yep.  I  allers  suspicioned  that  he'd  come  back  to  at- 
tend my  funeral." 

Hobo  lit  his  cig,  conscious  that  his  sire's  dimmed  eyes 
were  smouldering.     He  replied,  not  too  happily: 

"Mebbe  he  will." 

The  old  man  snapped  out  viciously: 

"Mebbe  he'll  turn  in  his  checks  first — a  nice  set  o'  papers, 
too !" 

Hobo  murmured  uncomfortably : 

"Say,  what  you  got  agin  him?" 

"I'll  tell  ye.  He  was  allers  a  loafer  of  the  worst  kind, 
was  George.  Never  worked  'cep'  with  his  jaw;  a  loafer, 
and  a  liar,  and  a  thief.    He  stole  from  me,  he  did." 

"You  paid  this  yere  George  wages,  I  reckon?" 

"No.  I  calcilated  to  do  so.  I'd  fattened  him  up,  good 
and  soHd,  for  twenty  years.     He  owed  me  consid'able." 

19 


Some  Happenings 

"I  guess  you  owed  him  something?" 

The  two  men  glared  at  each  other.  The  father  stood 
up,  a  gaunt,  forbidding  figure. 

''Ye're  George!"  he  said  thickly.  "I  knew  ye  bang  off, 
when  I  heard  ye  laugh.  I  know  what  ye're  here  for.  Ye 
came  back  to  play  the  spy!  But  I  did  the  double  twist  on 
ye!  You  pulled  the  wrong  stop,  young  man.  Now,  if 
there*s  a  derned  thing  of  me  in  you,  own  up  that  yer  a 
loser!" 

He  ended  with  a  derisive  cackle. 

Hobo  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Looks  like  it,"  he  admitted.  ''But  ye'll  allow  that  I've 
worked  hard  fer  my  board?" 

He  rose  slowly  and  faced  his  father. 

"Ye  kin  git  outer  this — quick.    I've  no  use  for  a  fraud." 

'T'm  yer  only  son.  Pop." 

"Quit  that!  The  prodigal-son  turn  has  whiskers  on  it. 
If  ye'd  played  it  straight,  come  to  me  like  a  man,  and 
axed  fer  fergiveness,  I  might  hev  given  ye  one  more 
chanst.  You  don't  want  me — never  did.  Ye're  after  what 
I've  got.  Wal,  it'll  come  to  ye  after  I'm  dead,  and  I 
reckon  ter  live  some  time  yet.     Skin  out!" 

He  pointed  to  the  door. 

Hobo  went. 

Ill 

A  dull  anger  possessed  him,  the  futile  rage  of  the 
baffled  and  discomfited  schemer.  This  dim-eyed  old  man 
had  fooled  him.  That  rankled.  He  went  back  to  the 
barn  to  get  his  blankets.  He  had  no  intention  of  tres- 
passing further  upon  his  sire's  hospitality.  Apart  from 
his  anger,  his  thoughts  were  turning  southward,  to  the  land 
of  sunshine,  the  paradise  of  the  beach-comber  and  tramp. 
He  would  come  north  again  when  his  father  died. 
20 


The  Shadow  on  the  Blind 

Having  rolled  his  blankets,  he  sat  down  in  the  sweet- 
smelling  hay.  At  this  moment  he  became  aware  of  voices. 
Instantly  he  was  alert.  The  voices  were  hushed  and  inar- 
ticulate, attenuated  whispers.  Hobo  wriggled  through  the 
hay.  Two  men  were  talking  together  just  outside  the 
bam.  It  was  too  dark  to  see  them,  but  instantly  he  identi- 
fied them  as  being  the  "tinhorn"  gamblers  whom  he  had 
met  in  Highville.  As  instantly  he  divined  their  purpose — 
robbery  and  murder.  He  divined  also,  recalling  vividly 
the  mean,  simian  faces  of  the  gamblers,  that  they  would 
take  no  ''chances."  The  old  man  had  a  reputation  as  a 
shot.  To  ''hold  him  up"  in  his  own  house  would  be  a 
difficult  and  dangerous  enterprise. 

Hobo  listened  to  their  talk. 

Yes,  they  had  a  plan.  Obviously,  these  two  scoundrels 
had  played,  in  their  turn,  the  spy.  They  had  seen  the 
shadow  on  the  blind.  They  intended  to  shoot  through 
the  blind,  to  kill  the  worker  at  his  work,  and  then  to  rob 
him  at  their  leisure. 

Hobo  shivered  as  temptation  tore  at  him.  The  old  man 
had  ordered  him  peremptorily  to  go — quick.  If  he  obeyed 
his  sire;  if  before  dawn  he  put  many  miles  between  him- 
self and  the  ranch ;  if  he  lay  low  for  a  few  weeks  till  the 
papers  advertised  for  him,  his  object  in  coming  north 
would  be  triumphantly  achieved. 

Something  else  occurred  to  him.  He  might  be  accused 
of  his  father's  murder.  The  mere  fact  that  a  tramp  had 
been  seen  upon  the  ranch  working  for  his  board — and 
surely  these  two  spies  must  have  seen  him — would  be 
deadly  evidence  against  him.  From  his  knowledge  of  such 
men  it  was  more  than  likely  that  they  had  deliberately 
planned  to  fasten  the  guilt  upon  him.  Probably,  also,  the 
very  murderers  would  help  Judge  Lynch  to  execute  foot- 
hill law.     What  an  easy  way  of  saving  their  own  skins ! 

21 


Some  Happenings 

The  cold  sweat  broke  out  upon  him. 

He  crawled  back  to  his  blankets  and  stole  out  of  the 
barn,  ready  to  take  the  road.  He  could  see  the  house  and 
a  light  in  the  kitchen.  Soon  there  would  be  a  light  in 
the  parlour. 

Hobo  crossed  the  cow-corral,  climbed  it,  and  struck 
into  the  home  pasture.  He  walked  quickly,  pausing  now 
and  again  to  listen.  He  heard  a  thud  of  following  steps, 
and  something  large  and  uncanny  loomed  up  behind  him. 
It  was  his  father's  old  saddle-horse,  whom  he  had  fed  and 
watered  each  night  and  morning.  He  put  out  his  hand, 
and  a  soft  muzzle  was  thrust  into  it.  Hobo  had  always 
been  fond  of  animals,  and  they  liked  him.  He  stroked 
the  velvety  nose  of  the  old  sorrel  with  a  cold  and  trem- 
bling hand.    . 

''Gee  !"  he  muttered.    "I  can't  do  it !" 

He  couldn't  explain  why  this  reaction  had  set  in.  He 
stood  still,  patting  the  neck  of  the  horse,  hesitating  be- 
cause he  was  wondering  what  he  should  say  to  his  father. 
The  old  man  was  capable  of  believing  that  another  "wrong 
stop"  had  been  pulled  on  him.  The  gamblers  might  over- 
hear voices  and  postpone  their  undertaking.  But  sooner  or 
later  they  would  "down"  an  old  man  living  by  himself, 
engrossed  in  his  own  business. 

Hobo  cautiously  retraced  his  steps. 

He  had  been  ready  enough  to  confront  his  father  with 
a  lie,  but  the  truth  palsied  his  lips.  The  old  man  had  no 
use  for  a — fraud! 

As  he  climbed  the  corral  fence,  the  pine  poles  upon 
which  he  had  sat  as  a  boy,  he  saw  that  the  light  in  the 
kitchen  was  out.  The  parlour  lay  upon  the  other  side  of 
the  house.  Hobo  fetched  a  compass,  skirting  the  small 
garden-yard,  enclosed  in  a  cypress  fence. 

A  light  burned  in  the  parlour. 

22 


The  Shadow  on  the  Blind 

He  hastened  back  to  the  kitchen  and  entered  the  house. 
Not  a  moment  was  to  be  lost.  There  was  a  rubber  hose 
in  the  kitchen.  That  told  the  tale  of  the  washing.  Prob- 
ably his  father  kept  the  sacks  of  gravel  in  the  cellar.  The 
door  between  the  kitchen  and  the  house  was  unlocked. 

Hobo  wasted  no  time  in  vain  speculation.  He  left  the 
kitchen,  crossed  a  narrow  passage,  and  opened  the  parlour 
door,  too  excited  to  be  aware  that  he  ran  no  small  risk 
of  being  shot  dead  as  he  did  so. 

The  parlour  was  empty.  All  the  furniture  had  been 
taken  out.  Nothing  remained  but  what  was  necessary  to 
wash  the  gold  out  of  the  gravel.  The  floor  was  inches 
deep  in  silt.  Two  big  tubs  and  the  rocker  stood  near  a 
table  upon  which  a  lamp  burned  steadily. 

For  a  moment  Hobo  forgot  the  two  men  outside.  The 
cellar  was  underneath  the  parlour,  and  he  could  just  hear 
his  father  moving  about  below.  Upon  the  table  lay  a 
shot-gun,  loaded,  it  might  be  presumed,  with  buck-shot. 
The  table  was  against  the  wall,  and  the  rocker  stood 
between  the  lamp  and  the  drawn  blind. 

Hobo  had  always  been  fairly  quick  to  think  for  himself, 
but  the  faculty  of  thinking  for  others  may  have  been 
atrophied  by  disuse.  He  stood  still,  wondering  whether 
the  old  man  carried  a  pistol.  U  he  did,  he  could  not  use 
it,  burdened  as  he  would  be  with  a  hundredweight  of 
gravel.  Yes,  yes,  he  would  have  ample  time  to  explain. 
It  never  occurred  to  him  to  turn  out  the  lamp,  because,  as 
has  been  said,  he  was  thinking  of  his  father  and  not  of 
the  two  men  in  ambush. 

A  shot  rang  out. 

Hobo  fell  in  a  crumpled  heap  upon  the  spot  where  he 
stood,  as  a  buck  falls  when  the  bullet  flies  true  to  its  mark. 
The  two  men  outside  waited  a  moment,  and  then  ap- 
proached the  house.     Hobo's  father,  hearing  the  shot,  left 

23 


Some  Happenings 

the   cellar.     A   door    slammed    loudly.      The    two    men 
bolted,  believing  that  they  had  missed  their  quarry. 

Hobo's  father  entered  the  parlour. 

Instinct  told  him  what  had  happened.  He  turned  down 
the  lamp  and  pulled  up  the  blind.  A  broken  pane  of 
glass  met  his  glance.  He  threw  up  the  sash  of  the  window, 
seized  his  shot-gun,  and  looked  out.  The  ground  in  front 
of  the  house,  beyond  the  cypress  fence,  was  covered  with 
brush  and  sloped  sharply  to  the  creek.  In  the  stillness 
of  the  night  the  old  man  could  hear  the  crackling  of  broken 
twigs.  He  turned  up  the  lamp  and  knelt  down  beside  the 
heap  of  rags  upon  the  floor. 

He  was  quite  certain  that  George  was  dead. 

He  lay  curiously  still,  as  if  asleep.  The  father  searched 
for  the  wound  and  found  it.  Then  he  started  back  with 
an  exclamation. 

George  had  been  creased. 

The  old  hunter  knew  well  what  "creasing"  was.  He  had 
creased  more  than  one  fine  buck.  The  bullet  passes 
through  the  flesh  of  the  neck,  almost  grazing  the  spinal 
vertebrae.  Shock  causes  the  beast  to  drop  as  if  stone-dead 
in  its  tracks.  And  he  recovers  consciousness  as  instan- 
taneously, jumping  up  and  galloping  oflF  unhurt. 

Presently,  at  any  moment,  George  would  open  his  eyes, 
none  the  worse  save  for  a  shallow  cut.  Standing  en  proHl 
to  the  assassin,  who  had  aimed  at  his  head,  he  had  escaped 
death  by  a  hair's-breadth. 

But  what  was  George  doing  in  this  room?  Why  had  a 
bullet  struck  the  son  instead  of  the  father? 

With  some  difficulty  he  lifted  George  into  a  chair  and 
waited.  What  he  expected  came  to  pass.  George  recov- 
ered instant  consciousness.  He  jumped  up,  confronting 
his  father,  obviously  unaware  of  what  had  passed.  He 
spoke  excitedly: 
24 


The  Shadow  on  the  Blind 

"Pop,  I  come  back  to  warn  ye.  Two  tinhorns  from 
Highville  air  out  thar.  I  heard  'em  talkin'  back  o'  the 
barn.    Me  and  you'll  cop  'em,  if  we  git  a  move  on." 

The  Oxd  man  answered  slowly,  staring  into  the  eager 
eyes  of  his  son,  seeing  once  again  the  child  he  had  held 
upon  his  knee. 

"They  hev  got  a  move  on,"  he  said. 

"What?" 

*'Them  skunks  hev  vamoosed.  I'm  kinder  under  obliga- 
tions to  'em.  Me  and  you,  George,  '11  stay  right  here — 
an'  begin  agen." 

Hobo  betrayed  some  astonishment. 

"I'm  feelin'  dazed,  Pop.  But  them  fellers  air  out  thar — 
sure." 

"No,  they  ain't." 

Then,  with  a  queer  smile  upon  his  lips,  he  touched  his 
son's  neck,  and  showed  him  an  encarmined  finger. 

"Whatever's  that.  Pop?" 

"It's  blood,  my  son.    Yours  and — mine." 


25 


II 

THE    CHILDREN    OF    HATE 

THE  Root-Diggle  feud  began  about  a  strip  of  Californian 
land  (part  of  a  Spanish  grant,  but  subsequently  dis- 
covered to  be  the  property  of  Uncle  Sam),  which  was 
taken  up  by  a  third  party,  Jack  Hart,  who  lived  undis- 
turbed between  enemies  who  had,  perhaps,  exhausted 
hatred  upon  each  other  with  none  to  spare  for  a  new- 
comer. The  feud  was  a  blood  feud,  for  Sam  Diggle  and 
Abe  Root  had  shot  each  other  to  bits  in  a  saloon  near 
Seco.  Each  recovered  of  his  wounds ;  each  vowed  ven- 
geance on  the  other ;  each  avoided  contact  with  the  other. 
In  a  sense  the  land  about  which  they  had  quarrelled  be- 
came a  buffer  between  them.  And,  living  in  different 
townships,  the  children  of  each  went  to  different  schools. 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  the  younger  members  of 
the  two  families  had  never  met,  although  they  were  care- 
fully trained  to  loathe  each  other. 

Some  years  after  the  shooting  affair,  Johnnie  Diggle 
went  trout-fishing  in  the  creek  which  runs  through  his 
father's  ranch.  But,  as  Johnnie  knew,  that  part  of  the 
creek  was  nearly  fished  out.  Upon  the  Hart  ranch,  as 
Johnnie  also  knew,  the  trout  were  allowed  to  increase  and 
multiply  in  peace.  From  early  youth  Johnnie  had  been  posi- 
tively enjoined  not  to  trespass  upon  land  where  he  might 
meet  an  enemy.  The  Root  children  had  received  similar 
orders.  Johnnie,  however,  was  a  keen  fisherman,  and  in 
the  Californian  foothills  the  Fifth  Commandment  is  re- 
garded as  a  counsel  of  perfection. 
26 


The  Children  of  Hate 

Upon  this  pleasant  April  afternoon  Johnnie  was  filling 
his  basket.  He  fished  diligently.  After  the  fishing, 
before  he  returned  home  to  do  "chores,"  he  intended  to 
have  a  nap  under  some  live-oak.  It  was  a  slightly  sultry 
day,  and  he  felt  sleepy.  Presently,  he  lay  down,  closed 
his  eyes,  and  slumbered  blissfully.  When  he  awoke  a 
little  girl  was  staring  at  him,  with  a  faint  smile  upon  her 
face.  She  had  been  watching  him  intently  for  more  than- 
a  minute,  wondering  vaguely  who  he  might  be.  Johnnie 
sat  up,  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  said: 

"Hello !" 

"Hello!"  she  replied  demurely.  Then,  as  if  presenting 
an  excuse  for  her  presence,  she  said  softly: 

"You  bin  fishin'?" 

He  stood  up. 

"Yep.     You  like  to  see  my  fish?" 

She  nodded.  Johnnie  displayed  the  speckled  beauties, 
uneasily  conscious  that  he  had  not  asked  leave  to  fish  this 
part  of  the  creek,  and  that  the  girl  looking  pensively  at 
the  trout  might  be  the  daughter  of  a  neighbour  with  whom 
he  and  his  had  no  dealings.  He  decided  to  propitiate  her 
by  offering  part  of  the  spoil.  She  declined  the  offer  with 
embarrassment.  Johnnie  wanted  to  ask  her  name,  but  her 
increasing  shyness  infected  him.  She  turned  to  go  with- 
out a  word. 

"Where's  your  hurry?"  asked  the  boy.  He  was  just 
twelve,  and  the  maid  shyly  glancing  at  him  from  beneath 
the  shade  of  her  sun-bonnet  might  have  been  a  year 
younger.  Behold  them  as  children  of  the  sun  and  wind, 
clear  of  skin  and  eyes,  straight  and  lissome,  perfectly 
healthy  but  otherwise  undistinguished.  Had  they  changed 
clothes,  the  boy  would  have  passed  easily  as  a  girl,  and 
vice  versa. 

The  girl  paused  and  came  back. 

7.7 


Some  Happenings 

"I  ain't  in  no  particular  hurry." 

She  smiled,  and  to  Johnnie,  at  that  instant,  she  stood 
revealed  as — SHE.  Hitherto  he  had  despised  girls,  and 
kept  aloof  from  them.     He  smiled  back,  artlessly. 

"Gee!"  he  exclaimed.     "I  like  you." 

"Why?" 

"I  dunno.  I  think  yer  the  peartest  thing  I  ever  seen. 
What's  your  first  name?'* 

"Mandie." 

"I'm  Johnnie." 

Had  Mandie  replied:  "My  name  is  Amanda  Root," 
one  wonders  whether  inherited  hate  would  have  triumphed 
over  incipient  love.  To  Mandie — incredible  as  it  may 
seem — ^Johnnie  had  been  metamorphosed  into  a  fairy 
prince,  wearing  shining  armour.  To  Johnnie  the  tow- 
headed,  blue-eyed  girl  who  stood  upon  one  leg  and  gently 
rubbed  herself  with  the  other  had  come  straight  out  of 
Dreamland.    He  wondered  how  he  could  impress  her. 

"Like  ter  see  me  tickle  a  trout?"  he  asked. 

Mandie  nodded. 

He  took  her  hand  in  his  and  knelt  down,  signing  to  her 
to  do  as  he  did.  Together,  side  by  side,  they  wriggled 
through  the  grass  till  they  came  to  the  creek.  Johnnie, 
finger  upon  lip,  peered  keenly  into  the  pool.  He  had 
marked,  an  hour  before,  a  fat  trout  who  had  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  the  grasshopper  dangled  above  his  nose.  The  trout 
lay  close  to  the  bank,  with  head  up-stream.  Johnnie  bared 
an  arm  and  sHd  his  hand  into  the  water.  Mandie,  much 
excited,  craned  forward.     The  trout  vanished. 

"You  scared  him,"  said  Johnnie. 

"I  didn't." 

"Never  mind!     It's  awful  hot.     Let's  paddle." 

They  paddled  contentedly,  chattering  like  monkeys,  each 
intent  upon  impressing  the  other  favourably.  They  might 
28 


The  Children  of  Hate 

have  been  two  nice  congenial  boys.  But  the  boy,  not 
the  girl,  remembered  the  flight  of  time.  He  explained  that 
he  would  be  late  for  his  "chores." 

"Me  too,"  said  Mandie. 

Johnnie  became  tongue-tied.  Mandie,  apparently,  suf- 
fered from  the  same  infirmity.  When  the  silence  grew 
oppressive,  the  boy  said  abruptly : 

"So  long!" 

"So  long,"  replied  Mandie. 

They  separated,  but  each  turned  simultaneously  for  a 
parting  glance.     Johnnie  made  a  supreme  effort: 

"See  you  here  to-morrer,  mebbe?" 

"Mebbe." 

"Gee !"  exclaimed  Johnnie,  addressing  a  blue  jay.  "Am't 
she  a  daisy?" 

The  blue  jay  screamed  derisively  and  flew  off.  Johnnie 
noticed  that  the  bird  followed  Mandie. 

He  returned  home  in  the  highest  spirits.  The  trout 
were  served  at  supper,  and  Johnnie,  finding  himself  in 
favour,  hazarded  a  question. 

"Say,  Pop,  what  sort  o'  feller  is  Jake  Hart?" 

Mr.  Diggle  answered  promptly: 

"Pore  white  trash,  Johnnie.  He  jumped  a  claim  that 
rightly  belongs  ter  me.  You  let  him  stew  in  his  own  juice, 
my  son." 

"Yep.    Has  Jakea  fam'ly.  Pop?" 

"Yer  mighty  curious.  You  know  right  well  that  he  has  a 
fam'ly — a  lot  o'  bare-legged  kids  as  ugly  and  ignerunt  as 
himself." 

"Scum!"  added  Mrs.  Diggle. 

Johnnie  blushed,  but  nobod<y  noticed  that.  His  last 
thought,  as  he  fell  asleep,  was — 

"Will  Mandie  be  thar,  to-morrow?" 

«  •  •  •  • 

29 


Some  Happenings 

He  arrived  first  at  the  trysting-place,  a-quiver  with  ex- 
citement, straining  his  ears  to  catch  the  sound  of  her 
approaching  steps.  But  when  she  appeared  certain  care- 
fully prepared  speeches  were  abbreviated  into  one  word : 

*'Hello  !'^ 

"That  you,  Johnnie?"  said  the  maid. 

"Yep— it's  me." 

"I  come  up  the  creek,"  continued  Mandie. 

"I  come  down  it." 

After  this  superlative  effort  conversation  languished.  It 
quickened  into  life  again  when  Mandie  asked  the  following 
confounding  question: 

*'Say,  Johnnie,  are  you  acquainted  with  the  Diggles  ?" 

"You  bet,"  replied  the  boy. 

"Hateful  crowd,"  said  Mandie  viciously. 

By  this  time  they  were  sitting  together  under  the  live-oak, 
where  Johnnie  had  fallen  asleep. 

"Hateful?"  repeated  Johnnie. 

"Mean  skunks." 

Now  Johnnie  Diggle  was  no  fool.  The  wilderness  had 
sharpened  his  wits  rather  than  his  tongue.  And,  habitually, 
he  thought  before  he  spoke.  He  guessed  that  Mandie  was 
a  Root,  and  he  divined  also  that  she  had  taken  him  for  a 
Hart.  It  would  be  kind  not  to  undeceive  her.  But,  being  a 
Diggle,  he  felt  constrained  to  say  something  derogatory 
about  the  Roots,  with  a  mental  reservation  to  exclude  the 
female  members  of  that  family.  Accordingly  he  drawled 
out: 

"I  like  the  Diggles  first-rate,  what  I  seen  of  'em.  They 
ain't  like  the  Root  boys." 

"What  you  say?" 

"Them  Root  boys  is  scum.     The  Diggles  is— quality." 

Mandie  opened  her  mouth  and  closed  it  again.  She  was 
not  quite  so  sharp  as  Johnnie.     For  example  she  still  be- 

30 


The  Children  of  Hate 

lieved  that  she  was  speaking  to  a  Hart,  and  indignation 
filled  her  innocent  heart  because  a  Hart,  not  acquainted  with 
Root,  dared  to  describe  as  "scum"  her  own  brothers. 
Nevertheless  she  said : 

*'You  know  the  Root  boys,  Johnnie?" 

''I've  heard  a  heap  about  'em." 

*'I  reckon  you  heard — lies." 

"Mebbe  you're  acquainted  with  the  Root  boys?" 

Mandie  dissembled  in  her  turn.  She  decided  quickly 
that  this  nice  Hart  boy  must  be  trained  to  a  proper  ap- 
preciation of  the  Roots.  Probably,  he  was  feeling  sore 
because  the  Roots  had  ignored  the  existence  of  the  Harts. 
She  murmured  reflectively : 

"1  ate  turkey  dinner  with  the  Roots  last  Thanksgiving." 

"Is  that  so  ?  Wal— the  Diggles  had  turkey  and  ham  and 
mince  pie  and  plum-puddin'  and  pop-overs  and " 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Because  I  was  thar." 

Something  defiant  in  his  tone  revealed  the  truth.  He  was 
Johnnie  Diggle,  one  of  the  hateful  skunks!  If  she  be- 
haved like  a  true  Root,  she  ought  to  rise  up,  denounce  him 
and  leave  him. 

But  she  didn't !  Instinct  saved  the  situation.  She  liked 
Johnnie  and  he  liked  her;  but  she  wondered  whether  he 
would  go  on  liking  her  when  the  truth  shone  blindingly 
upon  him.  It  would  be  unkind  to  enlighten  him  too  soon. 
Whilst  these  reflections  were  passing  through  her  mind, 
she  felt  Johnnie's  hand  on  hers.  She  pretended  not  to  no- 
tice it.    Then  she  heard  him  say  gently : 

"I  ain't  nothing  agen  the  Root  wimmen-folk." 

To  this  Mandie  replied  briskly : 

"Let's  talk  o'  things." 

"Let's." 

"You  begin,  Johnnie." 

31 


Some  Happenings 

Johnnie,  thus  adjured,  said  valiantly: 

"Vd  like  mighty  well  to  show  you  my  cave.  If  you  was 
a  boy  we  might  live  in  it.  I  found  it,  when  I  was  huntin' 
abalones.  It's  my  secret  hidin'-place.  You  git  into  it  at 
low  tide.    It's  low  tide  now." 

Mandie  said  fervently: 

"I'd  jest  love  to  see  it." 

"But  you'd  tell  about  it,  bein'  a  girl." 

Mandie  rose  sorrowfully,  turned  her  back,  and  wandered 
half-a-dozen  steps  from  Johnnie.    He  pursued  her. 

*'Mandie,  I  was  jokin'.  I  was — honest  Injun!  You 
come  along,  right  now." 

They  had  a  mile  to  go.  Love-making  beguiled  the  way. 
Johnnie  was  not  a  boy  to  do  things  ansemically.  He  began 
resolutely : 

"I'd  jest  as  lief  marry  you,  Mandie.  Why  not?"  Mandie 
blushed. 

"Then  we  could  live  in  the  cave.  I'd  be  busy  fishin' 
from  the  rocks  and  you'd  do  the  cookin'." 

"I'd  like  to  fish  some,  Johnnie." 

"Thar's  honey  to  be  got.  I  know  two  bee  trees.  And 
thar's  clams.  We'd  hev  a  hog-killin'  time.  Say,  Mandie, 
will  you  marry  me?" 

"You  mean  jest  fer — fun?" 

"I  mean  fer  keeps,  ever  and  ever — Amen !  I  kiss  you ; 
you  kiss  me.  I  say :  *I  marry  you,'  and  you  say :  *I  marry 
you.'  It's  as  easy  as  easy.  Then  you're  mine  and  I'm 
yours — see  ?" 

Mandie  nodded.  But  if  he  knew — !  She  stood  still, 
staring  at  him.     Then   she  whispered,  gaspingly: 

"Thar's  our  folks." 

They  looked  hard  at  each  other.  Johnnie  burst  out 
desperately : 

"S'pose  I  was  a  Diggle?" 
32 


The  Children  of  Hate 

"S'posel  wasaRoot?" 

"I  shouldn't  keer  overly  much." 

*'Nor  me  neither." 

*'\Val— I  am  a  Diggle." 

''And  I'm  a  Root." 

They  breathed  more  freely,  smiling  faintly  at  each  other. 
Excitement  tickled  them  agreeably. 

"We'll  git  married  in  the  cave,"  said  Johnnie. 

"Yes,"  murmured  the  maid. 

They  followed  the  creek  down  till  it  became  an  estuary, 
and  then  paddled  happily  across  the  sands  till  they  came  to 
the  rocks  where  abalones  may  be  found  at  low  tide.  The 
rocks  were  kelp-covered  and  slippery.  Johnnie  took 
Mandie's  arm. 

"It's  my  own  cave,  Mandie.  I  found  it." 
Hand  in  hand  they  entered  the  wonderful  place,  car- 
peted with  fine  white  sand  which  sloped  sharply  to  the  sea. 
The  children  wandered  on  and  upward  till  a  smaller  cave 
presented  itself.  To  this  sanctuary  the  boy  had  carried 
rough  pine  boards,  out  of  which  he  had  fashioned  a  rude 
table,  a  bench,  and  something  approximating  to  a  bunk, 
which  he  had  filled  with  dried  grass  and  fern.  Mandie 
clapped  her  hands  with  delight. 

"Oh,  Johnnie;  it's  jest  too  lovely  for  anything." 
'Now,  Mandie,  we'll  git  married." 


«M, 


In  the  Diggle  homestead,  that  evening,  an  anxious  mother 
feared  that  her  Johnnie  would  get  waled  for  being  late  for 
"chores."  In  the  Root  board-and-batten  mansion  another 
mother  pledged  herself  to  spank  a  naughty  little  girl.  Later, 
both  Sam  Diggle  and  Abe  Root  set  forth  to  find  a  missing 
child.  Each,  from  such  evidence  as  was  available,  came  to 
the  independent  conviction  that  the  truant  must  have  wan- 

3-^ 


Some  Happenings 

dered  on  to  the  Jake  Hart  ranch,  where  there  was  more 
than  a  probability  of  getting  lost  in  the  chaparral.  For- 
tunately, it  happened  to  be  a  bright  moonlight  night.  Sam 
Diggle  found  Johnnie's  tracks  and  lost  them  again.  He 
followed  the  creek,  knowing  that  there  were  deep  pools  in 
it,  knowing,  also,  that  rattle-snakes  lurked  in  the  stony 
places.  Both  he  and  Abe  were  expert  trailers  and  hunters. 
Sam  moved  slowly  and  patiently.  Abe  Root  was  following 
smaller  tracks  as  patiently. 

Suddenly  Sam  heard  a  sound.    He  stood  stilL 

Abe,  not  fifty  yards  from  him,  heard  a  sound  also. 

The  men  shouted  together : 

**That  you,  Johnnie?" 

"Mandie— Mandie !" 

A  minute  later,  the  enemies,  who  had  sworn  to  kill  each 
at  sight,  stood  face  to  face.  The  moon  shone  full  upon 
their  set  jaws  and  smouldering  eyes.  For  an  instant  the 
children  were  forgotten.     Abe  said  threateningly: 

"What  the  h— 11  you  doin'  here?" 

Sam  replied  grimly : 

'This  ain't  yer  land,  nor  mine." 

But  each  had  heard  the  other  call  for  his  child.  Abe 
growled  out: 

"I'm  huntin'  my  leetle  Mandie." 

Sam  responded  as  ungraciously: 

"My  Johnnie  is  missin'." 

They  stood  together  in  the  bed  of  the  creek,  close  to  the 
pool  where  Johnnie  had  tried  to  tickle  the  trout.  Abe 
pointed  dov/mvards. 

*T  reckon  they're  together,"  he  said. 

*'Gee!"  exclaimed  Sam.     "They  air." 

In  stupefaction  they  stared  at  each  other  and  then  at  the 
iracks  of  the  children.  To  each  the  one  blasting,  con- 
3^ 


The  Children  of  Hate 

founding  fact  that  the  children  were  together  howled  for 
explanation.     Abe  said  huskily: 

"We  better  hit  the  trail  quick." 

In  silence  they  advanced  and  then  retreated,  at  fault 
within  a  few  minutes.  A  quarter  of  a  mile  away  twinkled 
a  light  in  Jake  Hart's  house.  Sam  spoke  this  time,  very 
reluctantly :  % 

"That  son  of  a  gun,  mebbe,  seen  'em?" 

"Mebbe,"  replied  Abe. 

Without  further  speech  they  strode  swiftly  towards  the 
twinkling  light.  When  the  astonished  Jake  beheld  them, 
glaring  at  him,  he  may  be  excused  for  believing  that  these 
two  men  whom  he  had  "bested"  were  joining  issue  at  his 
expense.    Sam,  however,  put  him  at  ease  by  asking  curtly : 

"Say — you  seen  two  kids,  boy  and  girl?" 

"I  see  'em  together  down  by  the  mouth  o'  the  creek, 
makin'  for  the  rocks.  They  was  huntin'  abalones,  I 
reckoned." 

Sam  saw  in  Abe's  eyes  the  fear  that  had  just  entered 
his   soul. 

"Big  spring  tide,"  he  muttered.     "Let's  git  a  move  on." 

Jake  accompanied  them,  carrying  a  lantern. 

The  spring  tide  was  beginning  to  ebb  when  they  reached 
the  rocks.  If  the  children  had  been  caught  on  the  rocks, 
assuredly  they  were  drowned.  If  they  had  wandered  back 
to  the  estuary,  why  were  they  missing? 

After  a  dreary  quest  along  the  base  of  precipitous  cliffs, 
at  the  moment  when  hope  abandoned  each  father,  Jake  Hart 
mentioned  the  cave.  He  was  of  opinion  that  they  would 
find  the  children  inside  the  cave. 

"Alive?"  asked  Abe. 

Jake  could  not  answer  this  poignant  question.  And  he 
knew  nothing  of  the  second  cave.  For  the  moment  it  was 
impossible  of  approach.    A  heavy  surf  broke  sullenly  upon 

35 


Some  Happenings 

the  rocks.  Jake  moved  away  from  the  unhappy  fathers, 
leaving  them  alone.  An  hour,  at  least,  according  to  Jake, 
must  pass  before  the  cave  could  be  entered.  Abe  said 
miserably : 

"She  was  the  cutest  little  cuss." 

Sam  nodded.  All  rancour  had  gone  from  his  voice  as 
he  muttered : 

"Johnnie  was  the  likeliest  colt  in  my  bunch." 

After  that,  cruel  and  devastating  silence ! 

When  it  was  possible  the  two  fathers  waded  into  the 
cave.  Jake  remained  outside.  Abe  carried  Jake's  lantern. 
By  this  time  it  was  midnight,  and  a  sea  mist  had  obscured 
the  moon.  As  they  waded  out  of  the  water  on  to  the  hard 
white  sand,  they  knew  what  the  fate  of  the  children  had 
been,  if  the  tide  had  caught  them  in  such  a  trap.  They 
stood  together  no  longer  as  enemies  but  partners  in  a  com- 
mon and  overwhelming  sorrow.     Abe  said  solemnly; 

"It's  a  judgment  on  us." 

Sam  bowed  his  head.  Together,  each  man  extended  a 
hand  to  the  other. 

"Shush-h-h !" 

Above  the  swish  and  gurgle  of  the  outgoing  tide  sounded 
a  little  cough,  the  attenuated  cough  of  a  sleeping  child. 

"Gosh!"  exclaimed  Sam.    "They're  up  thar!" 

By  the  dim  light  of  the  lantern,  they  saw  the  small 
opening  of  the  second  cave.  They  climbed  some  slippery 
rocks,  and  discovered  the  bridal  chamber. 

"They  ain't  here,"  said  Abe  hoarsely. 

"Look !" 

In  the  bunk,  fast  asleep  in  each  other's  arms,  lay  the  two 
children.  The  fathers  gazed  at  them.  Sam  Diggle,  who 
had  denounced  all  Roots,  said  softly: 

"She's  as  sweet  as  they  make  'em." 

Abe  replied  promptly: 

36 


The  Children  of  Hate 

"Thet  boy  of  yourn  is  a  dandy." 

"Seems  a  pity  to  wake  the  little  cusses,"  whispered  Sam. 

Abe  gripped  his  arm. 

"I  reckon  their  pore  mothers  ain't  asleep." 

Then  he  shook  the  slumberers,  who  sat  up  blinking. 
Johnnie  said  hastily: 

"We  was  caught  by  the  tide." 

"Was  ye?"  said  his  father  with  austerity,  "Now,  you 
tell  me  this,  Johnnie  Diggle.  Oughtn't  I  to  wale  the  stuffin' 
outer  ye?" 

Abe  put  a  similar  question  to  Mandie: 

"See  here,  Amanda  Root,  ain't  you  mighty  liable  ter  git 
spanked  by  yer  Maw  good  and  hard  ?" 

Mandie  puckered,  but  Johnnie  replied  stoutly : 

"It's  O.K.,  Pop." 

"What  d'ye  mean  by  O.K.?  And  me  an'  Abe  scairt 
nearly  silly!     What's  O.K.?" 

"Wal — me  an'  Mandie's  married." 


^ 


Ill 

AN    AMAZING   CHRISTMAS   EVE 

UPON  the  morning  of  December  24th,  1895,  Charles 
Meeker,  the  book-keeper  of  my  old  friend  Flamarion, 
shambled  awkwardly  into  my  office.  His  amiable  features, 
twisted  into  a  scowl  of  ludicrous  perplexity,  surmounted  a 
cravat  that  was  awry  and  an  overcoat  improperly  ad- 
justed. 

"Bless  my  soul!"  said  I.    "What's  the  matter?" 

He  glanced  nervously  at  the  door. 

"Are  we  alone?"  he  whispered  nervously,  wiping  the 
perspiration  from  his  wrinkled  forehead. 

"We  are,"  I  replied.  "Speak  out,  Charles,  and  don'f 
mumble." 

He  leaned  forward;  his  lips  were  quivering,  his  pale, 
watery  eyes  glistened  with  excitement. 

"Mr.  Flamarion,"  he  stammered,  "is  crazy!" 

"Nonsense,"  I  retorted.     "Crazy?     Pooh!" 

Charles  Meeker  shook  his  head  solemnly. 

"Begging  your  pardon,  doctor,  I  repeat  that  Mr.  Fla- 
marion is  quite  crazy.  He  is  not  the  same  man.  He  has 
become  suspicious.  He  has  called  in" — the  book-keeper 
faltered,  and  then  whimpered  out — "he  has  called  in — an 
expert  accountant !" 

"Does  that  prove  him  crazy,  Charles  Meeker?" 

"Fve  been  in  his  service  twenty  years,  doctor.  And  I 
feel  this — deeply.  And  he  talks  of  closing  the  tea  business, 
and  going  into — soap !  Soap,  indeed.  He  will  find  himself 
^8 


An  Amazing  Christmas  Eve 

up  to  his  neck — not  in  soap,  but  in  soup.  Doctor,  this 
means  ruin!" 

"Where  is  he  now?"  I  asked. 

"In  his  office,  and,"  he  added  desperately,  "playing  the 
very  deuce  there." 

I  seized  my  hat  and  hurried  down  town.  James  Fla- 
marion,  a  tea-merchant  with  an  enlarged  spleen,  is  a  patient 
of  mine,  but  apart  from  that  our  friendship  is  of  long 
standing.  He  is  a  talker,  not  a  thinker,  and  in  the  role  of 
listener  I  have  become  part  and  parcel  of  his  life.  Mrs. 
Flamarion,  I  regret  to  say,  eyes  me  with  disapproval.  She 
is  a  devout  believer  in  the  late  Madame  Blavatsky,  and  a 
constant  contributor  to  the  Theosophist.  Woman-like,  she 
resents  my  scientific  rejection  of  her  psychical  theories,  and 
she  has  justly  incensed  me  by  aspersing  my  moral  character 
— merely  because  her  husband  and  I  indulge  occasionally 
in  a  thimbleful  of  whisky!  Jim  was  an  old  fool  to  marry 
a  young  and  pretty  woman,  and  I  told  him  so.  I  fear  he 
was  indiscreet  enough  to  repeat  my  remarks  to  his  wife. 
She  cut  me  dead  the  very  next  day ! 

I  found  Jim  in  his  office.  He  greeted  me  coldly.  In- 
stead of  offering  me  a  chair  and  a  cigar,  he  said  curtly: 

"I'm  very  busy.    What  do  you  want  ?" 

I  sat  down  and  eyed  him  keenly.  But  I  could  detect  no 
symptom  of  insanity,  incipient  or  otherwise.  On  the  con- 
trary, he  appeared  remarkably  cool  and  collected. 

"I've  a  Christmas  present  for  you,"  I  began  cheerily. 
"Some  cigarettes  which  will  carry  you  back,  old  boy,  to 
those  days  we  spent  in  Cuba.  Do  you  remember  that  little 
almond-eyed  houri  who  taught  you  to " 

"My  memory,"  retorted  this  miserable  hypocrite,  "is  an 
uncertain  quantity  which  stays  at  home.  Did  we  visit  Cuba 
together?  Oh,  really.  What!  Sir,  you  insult  me.  I  never 
heard  the  lady's  name  before.     Never!     As  for  your  cig- 

39 


Some  Happenings 

arettes,  you  can  smoke  them  yourself.  Smoking,"  he  added 
with  odious  self-complacency,  *'is  an  indefensible  habit. 
It  blights — it  stains.  I  have  eschewed  for  ever  the  filthy 
weed." 

''Doubtless,"  said  I,  ''you  have  sworn  off  whisky?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  have.  You  would  do  well  to  follow  my  ex- 
ample." 

I  rose  to  go.  In  my  professional  capacity  I  asked  a 
harmless  question: 

"Your  liver,"  said  I,  "must  be  bothering  you  a  bit — eh?" 

To  my  surprise  he  blushed  scarlet,  accused  me  of  grossly 
insulting  him,  and  intimated  in  plain  prose  that  for  the 
future  he  would  dispense  with  my  services  as  physician. 

"Rest  assured,  my  dear  Flamarion,"  I  replied  quietly, 
"that  my  poor  services  will  not  be  forced  upon  you.  None 
the  less,  I  have  studied  your  peculiar  ailment  for  some 
years,  and  I  solemnly  tell  you  that  in  another  man's  hands 
your  miserable  life  is  not  worth  six  months'  purchase." 

With  this  Parthian  shot,  I  shook  the  dust  of  his  con- 
founded office  from  my  feet  and  departed. 

"Flamarion  has  certainly  changed,"  I  said  to  myself,  in 
the  privacy  of  my  consulting-room;  "but  he  is  not  mad. 
A  queer  case — a  most  puzzling  case." 

Researches  in  the  field  of  mental  physiology  have  always 
attracted  me ;  and  a  problem,  in  the  person  of  my  old  friend, 
aroused  interest  and  curiosity.  Indeed,  I  was  considering 
the  propriety  of  calling  personally  upon  Mrs.  Flamarion, 
when  my  assistant  cut  the  knot  of  pros  and  cons  by  an- 
nouncing the  lady  herself. 

To  give  the  woman  her  due  she  is  as  handsome  as  an 
odaHsque.  A  modern  Zenobia,  with  flashing  black  eyes, 
full  red  lips,  and  a  firm,  beautifully  modelled  chin. 

"Pray  be  seated,  madam,"  said  I  suavely. 
40 


An  Amazing  Christmas  Eve 

She  selected  the  most  comfortable  chair,  and  sank  grace- 
fully into  its  padded  depths. 

"You  are  delightfully  installed  here,  doctor." 

Her  voice  had  a  peculiar  quality — clear,  vibrant,  and 
slightly  metallic.  A  foreign  accent  was  perceptible,  and  I 
remembered  some  absurd  story  about  her  mother  having 
been  a  begum.  I  bowed  politely.  Evidently,  I  reflected,  she 
means  to  ask  a  favour. 

"My  husband,"  she  continued,  "has  often  spoken  to  me 
of  your  little  merry-makings  here." 

"Our  merry-makings,  my  dear  lady,  usually  consist  of 
one  modest  glass  of  old  cognac." 

"I  have  heard  extravagant  encomiums  of  that  old  cog- 
nac," she  murmured. 

I  ventured  on  a  mild  joke. 

"Mrs.  Flamarion,  my  stairs  are  steep,  and  you  look 
fatigued ;  may  I  prescribe  a  dose,  a  tiny  dose,  of  that  noble 
liquor,  as  a  tonic?" 

"As  a  tonic,  doctor?     Well,  then — yes." 

I  filled  two  Hqueur  glasses  to  the  brim. 

"Most  strengthening,"  she  said  softly;  "I  feel  better 
already." 

A  physician  must  be  more  or  less  of  a  mind  reader.  I 
refilled  our  glasses,  and  smiled. 

"Doctor,"  she  sighed,  "I  can  appreciate  the  very  warm 
regard  that  Jim  has  always  evinced  for  you." 

"A  regard,  madam,  that  is  not  shared,  I  fear,  by  his 
wife." 

"Bah !"  she  replied.  "Let  bygones  be  bygones.  I've  mis- 
judged you,  doctor ;  but  you  must  accord  me  the  privilege  of 
my  sex,  and  allow  me  to  change  my  mind." 

So  speaking,  she  extended  her  shapely  hand.  I  squeezed 
it  discreetly,  and  detected  a  pressure  in  return. 

"And  now,"  she  continued,  with  a  change  of  tone,  "let 

41 


Some  Happenings 

me  explain  the  nature  of  my  errand.  Have  you  seen  Jim 
to-day.  Indeed!  Insulted  you?  Dear,  dear!  How  very 
strange.  What?  Refused  to  accept  a  box  of  cigarettes? 
Impossible !" 

"A  fact,"  I  retorted.  "Here  is  the  box.  Look  at  it. 
Note  the  fineness  of  these  wrappers,  the  delicious  aroma, 
the  shape." 

She  examined  the  Perfectos  critically,  and  selected  one. 

"It  appears,"  she  murmured,  "to  be  in  excellent  condi- 
tion." 

I  lit  a  match. 

"Madam,"  said  I,  "in  Spain  and  Russia  ladies  of  the 
highest  rank  smoke  habitually.     Permit  me." 

She  accepted  the  proffered  match,  and  lighted  the  ciga- 
rette ! 

Dreamily  she  closed  her  lovely  eyes,  and  let  the  smoke 
curl  lazily  in  widening  circles  around  her  blooming  cheeks. 
The  abandon  of  her  pose,  almost  masculine  in  its  disregard 
of  the  conventionalities,  exercised  an  extraordinary  effect 
upon  my  senses.  In  the  ardour  of  the  moment,  heaven 
knows  what  folly  I  might  have  committed.  Happily,  a  tap 
at  the  door  recalled  me  to  this  work-a-day  world  and  its 
prosaic  responsibilities.  I  opened  the  door.  It  was  my 
assistant. 

"Dr.  Simpson,"  he  said,  "wishes  to  see  you  at  once." 

Promising  an  immediate  return,  I  left  my  visitor.  With 
impatience  I  listened  to  Simpson  as  he  detailed  to  me  a 
grave  complication  that  had  arisen  in  his  practice ;  and  at  his 
urgent  request  consented  to  give  him  ten  minutes  of  my 
time  But  a  quarter  of  an  hour  had  elapsed  before  I  found 
myself  again  at  home.  I'm  ashamed  to  confess  it,  but  in 
my  excitement  I  ran  upstairs  two  steps  at  a  time,  and  with 
an  exultation  of  spirits  very  foreign  to  my  normal  tempera- 
ment, opened  my  consulting-room  door. 
42 


An  Amazing  Christmas  Eve 

Mrs.  Flamarion  had  departed ! 

The  fumes  of  that  Morales  tobacco  still  perfumed  the  air, 
and  on  the  carpet,  at  the  edge  of  the  hearth-rug,  I  saw  a 
small  glove.  This  I  placed  carefully  in  my  pocket.  Then, 
feeling  strangely  unstrung,  I  poured  out  another  glass  of 
cognac.  As  I  did  so  I  idly  noted  that  the  bottle  in  my 
absence  had  been  tampered  with.  The  inference  was  too 
obvious  to  be  misinterpreted.  Jim's  wife,  overpowered  by 
feelings  of  which  I  alone  apprehended  the  significance,  had 
sought,  as  I  sought,  the  same  remedy. 

That  Christmas  Eve,  who  should  come  to  my  office  but 
Flamarion  himself?  He  coolly  sat  down  and  asked  for  a 
drink. 

"You  don't  seem  pleased  to  see  me,"  he  said.  "After 
climbing  your  confounded  stairs  you  might  welcome  a  fel- 
low more  warmly." 

He  was  smoking  a  large  cigar  as  he  spoke. 

*T  thought,"  said  I  tartly,  "that  you  had  eschewed  the 
filthy  weed  and  the  debasing  liquor  habit.  You  told  me  so — 
only  this  morning." 

"This  morning?"  he  repeated  blankly.  "Well,  to  be  hon- 
est with  you,  old  man,  I  was  not — er — quite  myself  this 
morning.  I  dare  say  I  surprised  you.  Eh?  Told  you  that 
I  could  dispense  with  your  services  ?  Ha,  ha,  ha !  And 
what  did  you  reply?" 

"I  said  in  the  plainest  language  that  in  other  hands  your 
life  was  not  worth  six  months'  purchase." 

"You  did.  Thank  the  Lord !  Gave  me  six  months— eh  ? 
Well,  that  accounts  for  everything." 

"Perhaps,  James,  you  will  kindly  explain  to  my  limited 
intelligence  what  this  mystery  means."       j 

His  eyes  twinkled. 

"In  one  minute,  my  dear  fellow,  your  curiosity  shall  be 

43 


Some  Happenings 

gratified;  but  tell  me — has  anything  else  out  of  the  com- 
mon occurred  to-day?" 

''Your  wife  called." 

"My  wife!     Why,  man,  she  looks  upon  you  with " 

*' the  feelings  of  a  warm  friend,"  I  answered  com- 
placently. Then  I  gave  him  a  slightly  amended  version  of 
the  interview.  ''If  you  question  these  facts,"  I  concluded, 
"ask  my  assistant." 

"I  believe  them  implicitly.  And  now  be  prepared  for 
the  big  surprise  of  your  life." 

He  lit  another  cigar  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

"You  know,"  he  began,  "that  Mrs.  Flamarion  and  I  are 
advanced  Theosophists.  You  are  also  posted  in  the  shib- 
boleth of  our  science.  You  know,  for  instance,  what  we 
mean  by  the  astral  plane?  Just  so.  Now,  my  wife  and  I 
can  assume  at  will  our  astral  forms." 

"You  will  pardon  me,  James,  if  I  decline  flatly  to  believe 
any  such  nonsense." 

Flamarion  continued: 

"According  to  the  light  vouchsafed  us,  we  know  that  the 
body  is  a  mere  husk — the  temporary  dwelling-place  of  the 
immortal  spirit,  and  nothing  more.  Now,  last  night  my 
wife  suggested  that  we  should  change  bodies  for  five  min- 
utes or  so.  At  first  I  objected,  but  finally  gave  my  consent. 
We  lay  down  side  by  side.  Two  emanations,  supported  by 
twin  chords  of  prismatic  light,  proceeded  from  our  ap- 
parently lifeless  bodies,  and  the  metempsychosis  was  ef- 
fected. I  arose  in  my  new  garb,  feeling  devilishly  un- 
comfortable, and  my  wife  arose  in  hers.  To  test  the 
experiment,  I  rang  the  bell  and  asked  Rosa's  maid  to  bring 
me  a  handkerchief.     'Yes,  ma'am,'  she  replied. 

"And  now,"  continued  Jim,  blushing  like  a  schoolgirl, 
"comes  the  absurd  part  of  the  story.  The  success  of  the 
experiment  being  assured,  I  wished  to  rehabilitate  myself. 

44 


An  Amazing  Christmas  Eve 

Positively,  I  had  never  appreciated  my  own  body  before. 
As  a  woman  I  not  only  felt  supremely  ridiculous,  but  the 
oppression  about  the  heart  was  absolutely  unendurable. 
Rosa  had  always  assured  me  that  she  never  tight-laced.  I 
know  better  now.  And  her  shoes,  according  to  a  man's 
notions,  are  a  dozen  sizes  too  small  for  her  feet. 

"  'Come,  my  dear,'  said  I,  *we  will  change  again.' 

"To  my  surprise  she  put  her  hands  behind  her  back,  and 
said  insolently: 

"'Not  much!' 

"  'What  do  you  mean,  Rosa?' 

"  'What  I  say.  You've  had  your  day,  Jimmie — I  must 
call  you  Rosa  for  the  future — now  it  is  my  turn.  This 
change  of  sex  has  proved  a  revelation  to  me.  Nothing 
would  induce  me  to  become  a  miserable  woman  again. 
What?  Sacrifice  this  delightful  freedom  of  limb  to  oblige 
you?  No,  sir.  Never!  I'll  make  you  a  kind  husband. 
And  you  can  rest  easy  in  your  mind  about  business  matters. 
I  always  had  more  brains  in  my  little  finger  than  you  had 
in  your  head.  The  tea  trade  will  be  the  gainer  with  me  at 
the  helm.  In  short,  Jimmie — I  mean  Rosa — you  must 
resign  yourself  gracefully  to  the  inevitable.  I  should  be 
loth  to  use  force,  but  I  shall  not  tolerate  any  whining  or 
whimpering.  You  must  submit  to  my  authority  and  con- 
sider me  in  all  things.' 

"  'Rosa,'  said  I  hotly,  'you  be  hanged !'  and  then  my  ab- 
surd feminine  body  overpowered  my  masculine  mind.  I 
burst  into  tears ! 

"My  dear  fellow,  I  was  at  my  wits'  end  to  know  what 
to  do.  The  spirit  was  willing  enough,  but  the  pitiful  female 
flesh  proved  deplorably  weak.  I  must  draw  the  veil  of 
reticence  over  what  transpired  in  the  first  agony  of  this  new 
birth.     It  is  enough  to  say  that  I  went  early  to  bed,  and 

45 


Some  Happenings 

cried  myself  to  sleep.  I  woke  up  this  morning  partially 
resigned.  Rosa  hurried  off  to  the  office,  and  I  was  told  to 
order  dinner,  and  to  darn  some  socks.  I  must  tell  you  that 
I  came  down  to  breakfast  in  a  wrapper  and  slippers.  Would 
you  believe  it,  that  abandoned  woman  made  me  return  to 
my  room  and  put  on  a  tailor-made  gown? 

"  'You  have  always  insisted/  said  she,  'on  my  being 
properly  dressed,  and  I  demand  the  same  of  you.  Don't  let 
me  see  you  unless  you  are  presentable !' 

''In  the  afternoon  I  had  a  little  fun.  Some  old  hens 
called,  and  began  clacking  away  about  husbands  in  general, 
and  me  in  particular.  I  was  astonished  at  the  extent  of 
their  information.  However,  I  played  the  virtuous  wife  to 
perfection.  I  assured  them  I  had  implicit  confidence  in  Mr. 
Flamarion,  and  resented  their  officious  interference  in  my 
domestic  affairs.  They  won't  call  again  for  some  time,  I 
fancy.  Then  I  thought  of  you,  old  man,  and  paid  you  a 
visit.  Great  Scott !  I  gave  you  a  good  send-off,  didn't  I  ? 
And  I  left  a  glove.  Where  is  it?  In  your  breast  pocket? 
You  miserable  sinner!" 

"This  is  an  extraordinary  tale,"  said  I  testily.  "How  did 
you  persuade  your  wife  to  resume  her  despised  body?" 

"I  have  to  thank  you  for  that,"  said  Flamarion.  "You 
scared  her  to  death  talking  about  the  precariousness  of  my 
life.  The  thought  of  the  tomb  made  a  woman  of  her. 
When  she  came  home  to-night,  she  proposed  a  renewal 
of  the  old  relations.  Of  course  I  accepted.  But — say,  is 
my  life  really  in  danger?" 

"In  my  hands,"  I  replied,  "you  may  expect  to  die  an 
old  man." 

Flamarion  laughed  till  I  really  thought  he  would  choke. 

"Rosa,"  said  he,  "is  not  so  smart  as  she  thinks.  I'd 
sooner  be  a  man  for  six  months,  than  a  woman  for  fifty 
years.     B^  the  way,  she  begged  me  to  ask  you  to  dine  to- 

46^ 


An  Amazing  Christmas  Eve 

morrow.  You  won't?  Yes,  you  will.  And  we'll  give  you 
a  capital  Christmas  dinner,  and  make  a  Theosophist  of  you. 
But — you  mustn't  squeeze  Rosa's  hand."     ^ 

I  related  this  amazing  tale  to  Simpson. 

"The  explanation  is  nearly  as  simple  as  you  are,"  he 
replied.  "Flamarion  and  his  wife  have  had  a  little  fun  at 
your  expense.  The  joke  was  capitally  planned  and  carried 
out.    Astral  plane,  indeed — astral  fiddlestick !" 

Simpson  is  a  clever  surgeon,  but  his  gross  self-assurance 
is  a  source  of  anxiety  to  his  friends.  What  he  does  not 
know  would  stock  a  large  library. 


47 


IV 

THE  EIGHTH   YEAR 


TOM  GATHORNE  was  given  to  boasdng  that  he  and 
his  pretty  wife  had  married  for  love.  Nobody  con- 
tradicted the  good  fellow,  although  the  too  constant  affirma- 
tion exasperated  certain  cynics.  Burdon,  for  instance, 
Gathorne's  particular  pal,  had  sgiid  curtly: 

''What  of  it?  Why  do  you  buck  about  it?  Or,  rather, 
why  do  you  buck  about  it  now  ?" 

*'Now?" 

*'l  mean  this.  A  love  match  is  admittedly  an  experiment 
which  time  alone  will  justify  or  repudiate.  Common  sense 
should  have  suggested  to  you  the  expediency  of  selecting  a 
wife  with  a  bit  of  money,  which  would  have  helped  you 
enormously  in  your  business.  I  don't  say,  mind  you,  that 
you've  made  a  mistake." 

"I  should  think  not." 

"But  I  do  venture  to  repeat  what  must  be  obvious  to  all 
but  impassioned  sentimentalists,  of  which  you  are  one,  that 
the  first  few  years  of  marriage  are  not  a  sufficient  test.  The 
eighth  year,  so  I  am  credibly  informed,  is  critical." 

"What  tosh!" 

Burdon  shrugged  his  broad  shoulders.    He  was  a  doctor, 
with  an  increasing  practice  amongst  women.    Also  he  was 
a    bachelor.      What    our    neighbours    call    un    celibataire 
endurci. 
4S 


The  Eighth  Year 

Tom  Gathorne  began  his  business  career  as  a  clerk  on 
the  Stock  Exchange.  Later  he  had  put  some  five  thousand 
pounds  into  the  business,  receiving  in  exchange  a  junior 
partnership.  From  the  first  he  had  prospered.  Pluck  and 
Luck — those  great  twin  brethren — had  fought  by  his  side. 

Bit  by  bit  Burdon  and  he  drifted  apart  whilst  remaining 
staunch  friends.  Burdon  was  godfather  to  Gathorne's 
eldest  son — there  were  three  boys — and  he  had  kept  on  good 
terms  with  Mrs.  Gathorne,  although  she  had  refused  some- 
what peremptorily  to  employ  him  as  her  medical  attendant. 
However,  from  time  to  time  he  "vetted"  Tom. 

The  critical  eighth  year  was  now  rising  above  the 
horizon.  By  the  luck  of  things  Burdon  was  spending  a 
month  with  the  Gathornes  in  Scotland.  Tom  had  taken 
a  small  grouse  moor  with  some  sea-trout  fishing.  Mrs. 
Tom  and  the  children  made  up  a  party  of  six.  The  lodge 
was  comfortable,  and  Mrs.  Tom  prided  herself  upon 
house-keeping.  In  short,  from  a  material  point  of  view 
there  could  be  no  complaints.  And  the  sport  had  been 
excellent.  None  the  less,  Burdon  was  sensible  that  his  old 
friend  was  less  cheery  than  usual,  and  his  wife  somewhat 
irritable.  Tom  took  the  hill  with  a  shorter  stride.  Burdon 
noticed  that  the  children  were  not  particularly  robust. 
About  the  middle  of  September  he  told  Tom  that  he  was 
concerned  about  him. 

*l'm  all  right,"  growled  Tom. 

"You've  lost  weight,  my  good  fellow.  What's  wrong? 
Markets  dicky?" 

"Best  year  we've  ever  had.  I  may  take  a  forest  next 
season." 

"Liver  can't  be  out  of  whack  with  all  this  exercise." 

"I  tell  you  I'm  as  fit  as  a  fiddle." 

"Foolish  expression  that.  Fiddles  are  not  always  fit, 
as  any  violinist  will  tell  you.    A  Strad  is  most  susceptible, 

49 


Some  Happenings 

for  instance,  to  the  company  it  keeps.     You  can't  put  me 
off,  Tom.    Fm  worried  about  you.    On  my  word  I  am." 

His  voice  softened,  and  he  laid  his  hand  upon  Tom's 
arm,  gazing  keenly  but  kindly  into  his  friend's  eyes. 

"There  is  something  wrong,"  Tom  admitted. 

'T  knew  it.     Now — out  with  it." 

They  were  alone  in  the  smoking-room.  Mrs.  Tom  had 
gone  to  bed.  Each  man  was  smoking  his  pipe.  Whisky 
and  water  in  long  tumblers  lent  an  adventitious  aid  to 
confidence. 

*'Eve,"  said  Tom  moodily,  "no  longer  cares  for  me." 

"Impossible !" 

Burdon  was  genuinely  distressed,  for  Tom  spoke  with 
conviction. 

"It's  like  this,  old  man.  She's  wrapped  up  in  the  kids. 
She  devotes  herself  to  them — at  my  expense.    See?" 

Burdon  did  see.  What  surprised  and  annoyed  him  was 
the  realisation  of  not  finding  this  fact  out  for  himself. 
He  had  written  a  clever  pamphlet  entitled  "Maternal 
Instinct."  In  it  he  had  tried  to  show  that  women,  speaking 
generally,  were  divided  into  two  classes,  wives  and  mothers. 
He  had  admitted  that  some  women  could  adjust  satis- 
factorily the  conflicting  claims  of  wifehood  and  mother- 
hood, but  they,  so  he  affirmed,  were  rare  and  particular 
exceptions  to  the  common  rule. 

He  refilled  his  pipe,  waiting  for  Tom  to  continue.  Tom 
said  deliberately: 

"You  warned  me  once  that  the  eighth  year  after  mar- 
riage was  critical.  It  is.  For  example,  it  is  a  critical 
time  for  the  first  child.  Your  godson,  as  you  know,  is 
not  as  sturdy  as  we  could  wish.  The  little  beggar  is  my 
successful  rival.  Absurd,  but  true.  I  have  become — 
negligible  in  Eve's  eyes.  I  have  tried  to  blind  myself  to 
50 


The  Eighth  Year 

this ;  I  have  tried — God  knows ! — to  make  allowance  for 
a  mother's  anxiety.     But — there  it  is!" 

Burdon  nodded. 

*'I  suppose,"  continued  Tom,  "there  is  nothing  to  be 
done.  I've  had  a  wonderful  innings,  and  it's  over.  It's 
happened  to  half-a-dozen  other  fellows  of  my  acquaint- 
ance, and  I  shall  have  to  grin  and  bear  it  as — as  they  do." 

"Oh,  no!" 

**What  do  you  mean?  You  can't  imagine  that  I've  not 
done  my  best.  I  tell  you,  man,  I've  laid  siege  to  her, 
wooed  her  all  over  again.  And  she's  as  cold  as  Charity, 
poor  dear." 

"Um!"  said  Burdon. 

"I  shall  get  over  it,  but  I  feel  rather  cheap." 

"You  look  cheap.     I  think  it's  time  that  I  prescribed." 

"I  can  prescribe  for  myself.  There's  the  business.  I've 
worked  fairly  hard,  but  I  can  work  harder." 

"And  widen  the  gulf." 

"I  could  be  keener  about  shooting  and  golf." 

"You  might  make  love  to  another  woman." 

"As  a  lure?  Eve  would  despise  me.  And  I'm  not 
built  that  way.     Besides,  I  might  be  let  down  again." 

Burdon  answered  briskly :  "I  put  the  question  merely  to 
hear  you  answer  it.  Now,  look  here;  will  you  let  me  treat 
you?  I  believe  that  I  can  do  so  successfully,  but  you 
must  place  yourself  unreservedly  in  my  hands." 

"Drugs?" 

"Dear  me,  no !    Can  I  examine  you  now  ?" 

"You  vetted  me  last  May." 

"And  I  was  not  quite  satisfied  with  your  condition 
then."  He  rose  from  his  chair.  "I  shall  fetch  a  stetho- 
scope." 

Tom  waited,  staring  into  the  peat  fire,  which  smouldered 
dully,  giving  out  neither  heat  nor  light.     Eve's  love   for 

51 


Some  Happenings 

him  was  smouldering  as  dully.  He  had  not  a  particle  of 
faith  in  Burdon  as  bellows,  but  the  old  man  meant  well. 
Doctors  were  so  ridiculously  cocksure!  All  the  same,  he 
felt  mildly  interested  in  the  vetting.  And  he  knew  that 
he  would  be  annoyed  if  things  were  not  right.  Constitu- 
tionally he  was  as  sound  as  a  bell. 

Burdon  came  back,  carrying  the  stethoscope.  He  had 
assumed  his  professional  manner  and  deportment. 

The  examination  lasted  three  minutes.  Somewhat  to 
Tom's  annoyance,  Burdon  remained  silent,  but  his  face 
indicated  perplexity  and  anxiety.     Tom  said  nervously: 

"Anything  really  wrong?" 

^'Nothing." 

"Then  why  the  deuce  do  you  stare  at  me  like  that?  Nq 
kidding!     H  there  is  anything  wrong,  I  want  to  know  it." 

"Last  May  the  heart's  action  was  not  quite  regular. 
Probably  you  had  been  smoking  too  many  cigars.  To-day 
you  are  in  tip-top  condition." 

"Good !"  said  Tom,  much  more  cheerfully. 

"I  rather  hoped  to  find  it  otherwise." 

"Eh?" 

"You  see.  Eve  is  like  most  women " 

"She  isn't." 

"She  has  a  current  fund  of  sympathy  and  sensibility. 
Women  will  never  admit  that  this  fund  is  exhaustible.  If  it 
were  inexhaustible,  Eve  would  have  love  enough  for  you 
and  the  children.  Intuitively,  and  acting  upon  a  sound 
economic  principle,  she  is  meeting  her  obligations  in  ex- 
actly the  same  spirit  in  which  you  meet  yours." 

"Put  it  a  bit  plainer,  old  man." 

"You  do  a  big  credit  business  ?  Yes.  And  on  settlement 
days  you  pay  up  when  payment  has  to  be  made,  and  carry 
over  the  other  accounts." 

"I  take  you.    Eve  is  carrying  over — me?" 
52 


The  Eighth  Year 

"She  is.  Her  available  cash  at  the  Bank  of  Love  has 
been  paid  out  to  the  kids.  Therefore  your  cheques  are 
dishonoured.  To  change  my  metaphor,  the  fountain  is  not 
running  dry,  as  you  fear,  but  the  stream  has  been  diverted. 
Between  us  we  must  restore  the  beneficent  waters  to  their 
old  channel." 

^'How?" 

*'Your  wife  must  believe  that  you  need  irrigating.  I 
shall  hint  that  your  health  is  causing  me  concern.  I  might 
exaggerate  a  little  any  cardiac  weakness,  but  unhappily 
your  heart  is  beating  like  a  bull's.  Obviously  nothing  is  left 
to  us  but  pious  fraud.  In  a  very  real  sense  you  are  suffer- 
ing from  an  affection  of  the  heart,  and,  speaking  as  your 
medical  man,  I  advise  you  to  go  to  Nauheim  after  leaving 
Scotland.  Eve  must  accompany  you,  and  the  children 
will  be  left  behind.  I  shall  go,  too,  and  play  gooseberry. 
What  do  you  say?" 

"I  am  to  sham  illness,  excite  Eve's  pity,  abandon  the 
children,  and  play  the  tame  goat  at  a  beastly  German 
spa?" 

'That's  admirably  put." 

"Of  course  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind." 

"Then  I'll  go  to  bed." 

"I'm  awfully  obliged,  old  chap,  but  you  see  what  you 
suggest  isn't  cricket." 

"Perhaps  not.    Good-night." 

Burdon  went  to  his  room.  He  undressed  slowly,  think- 
ing of  his  friend. 

"I  was  a  fool,"  said  Burdon  to  himself,  "to  tell  Tom 
that  he  had  a  clean  bill  of  health.  No  man  can  afford  to 
be  honest  with  a  patient." 

He  was  still  frowning  when  a  sharp  tap  on  the  door  was 
followed  by  Tom's  entrance. 

"You  look  heated,"  said  Burdon  calmly. 

53 


Some  Happenings 

His  host's  eyes  were  sparkling  savagely  out  of  a  red 
face. 

"It's  a  bit  too  thick,  old  man !  Eve  is  sleeping  in  young 
Tom's  room.  There's  not  the  smallest  necessity  for  it. 
She  admits  that.  But  she  likes  to  be  with  him.  We've  had 
a  bit  of  a  rumpus.  I'll  admit  to  you  that  I  got  the  worst 
of  it,  because  I  lost  my  temper.  Eve  remained  perfectly 
calm.-  She  talked  a  lot  of  twaddle  about  duty.  Somehow 
it  came  home  to  me  that  she  wants  a  shock.  I'm  on  to 
this  little  game  of  yours,  cricket  or  no  cricket.  You  have 
my  leave  to  tell  my  wife  that  my  days  are  numbered.  So 
they  are.  Pitch  it  as  strong  as  you  like!  She  wants  stir- 
ring up.  She  accused  me,  by  George,  of  being  too  robust! 
You  let  yourself  go.  Don't  spare  her  feelings !  She 
doesn't  know  a  word  of  German,  and  she'll  loathe  Nau- 
heim.  You'll  play  doggo  and  keep  out  of  sight.  She'll 
just  have  to  concentrate  on  me." 

"Right,"  said  Burdon. 

II 

At  breakfast  next  morning,  Mrs.  Gathome  was  pre- 
occupied, as  usual,  with  the  children. 

"Naughty  Tommy  kept  his  mumsie  awake." 

"Why?" 

Brutal  monosyllables  are  a  woman  specialist's  stock-in- 
trade. 

"He  was  so  restless  in  his  sleep,  poor  darling." 

"Too  much  desert,"  said  Burdon.  "When  kids  get  their 
deserts  they  pay  for  'em." 

Tommy  always  listened  attentively  to  talk  about  him- 
self. That  is  why  many  children  die  young.  He  remarked, 
solemnly : 

"I  do  have  the  indigest.     It  hurts." 
54 


The  Eighth  Year 

In  a  whisper,  overheard  by  all,  but  intended  for  a  doc- 
tor's ear  alone,  Mrs.  Gathorne  made  an  illuminating 
remark : 

^'Heartburn." 

''Bicarbonate  of  soda,"  suggested  Burdon,  with  deep 
sympathy. 

Tom  senior  toyed  with  a  bit  of  toast,  refusing  grilled 
trout  and  kidneys. 

"Indigestion  is  the  very  devil,"  he  observed. 

His  wife  glanced  at  him. 

"How  do  you  know,  dear?" 

"I  do  know,"  he  replied,  with  emphasis. 

Just  before  breakfast  Burdon  had  led  him  aside. 

"Play  with  your  food,"  he  counselled.  "When  Eve 
follows  the  kids  out  of  the  dining-room  you  can  pitch 
in.     Twig?" 

Tom  twigged. 

But  Mrs.  Gathorne  did  not  follow  the  children  when 
they  scampered  away.  Possibly  her  conscience  was  pricking 
her.  Possibly  also  she  wanted  justification  from  a  pro- 
fessional man. 

"I  am  so  worried  about  Tommy,"  she  murmured. 

"You  needn't  be.  Is  it  wise  to  discuss  his  infantile  ail- 
ments before  him?" 

"Right  you  are!"  exclaimed  Tom  senior.    "Fatal  error!" 

"Not  fatal  so  far,"  amended  Burdon. 

Eve  betrayed  uneasiness.     "I  can't  help  being  anxious." 

At  this  moment  Tom  executed  a  strategic  movement. 
He  rose  languidly,  walked  to  the  side-table,  pocketed  a 
cold  grouse  and  three  scones,  and  vanished.  Eve,  with 
her  back  to  the  side-table,  did  not  see  him.  As  soon  as 
she  was  alone  with  Burdon,  she  said  eagerly: 

"I  came  to  Scotland  on  the  children's  account." 

"Really?    Not  on  Tom's?" 

55 


Some  Happenings 

"Tom^s?" 

*Tooi  old  Tom." 

'Toor  old  Tom!" 

"I  vetted  him  last  night  in  the  smoking-room.  Can  I 
speak  to  you  with  entire  frankness?" 

"Please  do!     But  you  terrify  me." 

"I  will  say  this  to  relieve  your  anxiety.  There  is  nothing 
organic — as  yet." 

"Nothing — organic?" 

"Nothing — incurable." 

"Heavens!" 

"I  may  be  mistaken.  But  in  my  opinion  Tom,  with  care, 
may  live  to  be  fifty.     With — care." 

Her  face  paled.    Burdon  went  on  relentlessly: 

"Tom's  appearance  is  deceptive.  You  may  have  no- 
ticed that  he  is  thinner?" 

"Surely  he  ought  to  be  thinner?" 

"He  ate  no  breakfast  this  morning." 

"Dr.  Burdon,  please  tell  me  the  worst  at  once." 

"How  did  he  sleep  last  night?" 

Eve  explained,  in  some  confusion,  the  reason  why  Tom 
had  slept,  or  had  not  slept,  alone.  With  increasing  agita- 
tion she  entreated  the  truth. 

"Well,  there  is  an  affection  of  the  heart — let  us  call  it 
cardiac  weakness.  Fortunately,  it  is  amenable  to  treat- 
ment." 

Eve's  eyes  grew  moist.  Burdon  felt  a  beast,  but  he 
continued : 

"You  ought  to  take  him  to  Bad  Nauheim  after  Scotland." 

"I  hate  the  idea  of  going  abroad  with  three  children." 

"They  must  be  left  behind." 

"Left— behind?" 

"I  want  you  to  give  your  undivided  attention  to  your 

56 


The  Eighth  Year 

husband.  Talk  with  him ;  walk  with  him ;  in  short,  mother 
him!" 

**Is  it  really  as  serious  as  that?" 

Burdon  nodded  grimly. 

Eve  burst  into  tears  ! 

Afterwards,  Burdon  admitted  to  Tom  that  the  affair 
had  been  too  easy.  Both  men  would  have  enjoyed  a  less 
one-sided  victory.  Eve  surrendered  unconditionally.  She 
arranged  that  the  children  should  be  left  with  her  mother, 
a  somewhat  Spartan  lady,  with  no  inclinations  towards 
spoiling  little  ones;  she  secured  rooms  at  Nauheim;  she 
tore  Tom  frorn  the  last  week's  sea-trout  fishing;  and, 
finally,  she  implored  him  to  consult  the  greatest  English 
specialist. 

"Burdon,"  said  Tom,  "understands  me." 

She  was  told  that  Burdon  intended  to  accompany  them. 
This,  it  will  be  guessed,  was  the  last  straw.  Burdon,  as 
she  well  knew,  was  an  extremely  busy  man.  Tom's  con- 
dition must  be  serious  indeed  if  Burdon  insisted  upon 
neglecting  a  fine  practice. 

in 

Three  days  later  the  Gathomes  and  Burdon  left  England. 
At  the  end  of  a  fortnight  Tom  was  eager  to  allay  his  wife's 
anxiety  by  confessing  the  truth.  Her  devotion — so  he 
pointed  out — was  obvious.  The  beneficent  waters  of  love 
had  been  redirected  into  the  old  channel.  She  could  hardly 
bear  Tom  out  of  her  sight. 

Burdon,  however,  while  admitting  this,  insisted  upon  a 
radical  cure. 

**Our  pious  fraud,"  he  said,  "will  infuriate  her.  A  re- 
action will  take  place.  She  will  rush  off  to  the  kids  and 
leave  you  to  stew  in  your  own  juice.'' 

57 


Some  Happenings 


Tom  was  constrained  to  acknowledge  the  probability  of 
this. 

"You  must  never  tell  her/'  continued  Burdon. 

"Never?" 

"Never." 

Tom  looked  abjectly  miserable,  but  one  glorious  fact 
illumined  the  present  and  future.  Eve  loved  him.  Of 
course,  she  had  always  loved  him — with  natural  inter- 
mittences. 

"Men,"  remarked  Burdon,  "must  exact  love  from  their 
wives.  I  contend  that  a  husband — or  a  wife,  for  that  mat- 
ter— is  entitled  to  the  fidelity  and  devotion  which  he  or 
she  can  exact." 

"By  hook  or  by  crook?" 

"Unquestionably." 

"I  feel  such  a  cad." 

"There  are  moments  when  you  look  one.  Be  careful 
about  that." 

"And  these  filthy  waters  have  pulled  me  down." 

"To  her  level,  mark  you.  It's  an  interesting  pathological 
fact  that  a  too  robust  man  like  yourself  is  more  affectionate 
when  he  is  below  par." 

Another  fortnight  passed. 

And  then  something  happened  quite  unforeseen  by  Bur- 
don. He  was  about  to  return  to  Harley  Street,  triumphant 
in  the  knowledge  that  he  had  treated  this  affection  of  the 
heart  to  a  successful  issue.  Upon  the  eve  of  departure 
his  friend's  wife  led  him  aside. 

"I  want  to  consult  you,"  she  said,  "professionally." 

"Professionally?" 

"You  will  promise  me  not  to  tell  Tom.  I  am  feeling 
rather  queer.  If  there  is  anything  the  matter  with  me, 
it  would  upset  Tom  dreadfully,  wouldn't  it?" 

Burdon  nodded. 

58 


The  Eighth  Year 

''Undo  your  clever  stitches?" 

*lt— might." 

''I  believe  my  heart  is  affected,  too.  Please  examine 
me." 

Burdon  looked  uneasy.  Perhaps  for  the  first  time  in 
his  Hfe  his  face  betrayed  him.  The  lay  mind  may  refuse 
to  admit  it,  but  conscience  does  make  cowards  of  some 
doctors.  He  told  himself,  with  abject  conviction,  that  this 
dear  little  woman  had  been  tried  too  high.  Anxiety  con- 
cerning Tom  had  undermined  her  own  health,  never  too 
robust. 

He  began  to  ask  questions. 

*'Why  do  you  think  that  your  heart  is  affected?" 

"I  have  disagreeable  palpitations.  I  don't  sleep  well. 
How  can  I  sleep  w^hen  at  any  moment  dear  Tom  may  be 
snatched  from  me?" 

'T  never  hinted  at  such  a  catastrophe." 

"Your  voice  quavered  when  you  told  me  there  was 
cardiac  weakness.  You  tried  to  spare  me,  but  a  wife  is 
never  deceived." 

"At  any  rate,  you  can  rest  easy  now.  Tom  is  almost 
himself  again." 

''That  is  what  worries  me  so.  Gentle  exercise  with  me 
is  not  enough  for  him.  He  wants  to  be  shooting  and 
golfing.     In  his  heart  he  is  pining  for  the  office." 

"Um !" 

''He  has  quite  regained  his  appetite,  but  I  have  lost  mine. 
Please  examine  me !" 

Burdon  did  so.  By  this  time  he  had  regained  his  im- 
passive expression,  but  he  was  thinking  more  of  Tom  than 
of  Tom's  wife.  He  felt  absurdly  angry  with  his  old 
friend.  How  dared  he  prattle  about  shooting  and  golf? 
Was  he  growing  weary  of  being  mothered?  He  gave  a 
short  grunt  of  dissatisfaction. 

59 


Some  Happenings 

'1  am  not  mistaken,"  said  Eve  quietly ;  "there  is  trouble." 

"Well — er— yes.     Nothing  to  be  alarmed  about." 

"We  must  keep  it  from  Tom." 

"My  dear  lady,  we  can't." 

"A  pious  fraud." 

His  own  words  came  back  to  roost  in  a  distracted  head ! 
Burdon  pulled  himself  together.     He  smiled  reassuringly. 

"Tom  is  strong  enough  to  know"  the  truth." 

"I'd  sooner  get  a  little  worse." 

"You  may  get  much  worse.  Come,  come;  trust  me. 
I'll  speak  to  Tom.  I  promise  you  not  to  alarm  him. 
Strictly  between  ourselves,  this  small  trouble  of  yours  will 
serve  to  distract  his  mind  from  golf  and  shooting.  He 
has  become  restive  under  treatment.  I  swear  solemnly 
to  you,  first,  that  I  can  put  you  right  in  three  weeks,  and, 
secondly,  that  it  will  do  Tom  a  lot  of  good  to  look  after 
you  as  tenderly  as  you  have  looked  after  him." 

Reluctantly  she  consented  that  Tom  should  be  told. 

Now,  picture  to  yourself,  if  you  can,  Tom's  consternation 
and  distress  when  he  was  told.  The  poor  fellow,  hoist 
with  his  own  petard,  wanted  to  fling  himself  at  his  beloved 
Eve's  feet  and  anoint  them  with  the  spikenard  of  unavail- 
ing tears.  If  anything  went  wrong  with  her  he  would 
hang  himself  as  a  murderer. 

"Nothing  will  go  wrong  with  her,  humanly  speaking." 

"I  must  set  her  dear  mind  at  rest  about  me." 

"Then  I  wash  my  hands  of  both  of  you.  This  serves 
you  right.  You  wanted  your  wife's  undivided  devotion 
and  love.    You've  had  it." 

"At  what  a  cost !"  groaned  Tom. 

"Keep  cool.     I  have  noticed  lately  a  restlessness  in  you, 
a  desire,  no  doubt,  to  escape  from  an  uneasy  conscience. 
Possibly,   too,   this   second   honeymoon   is    waning.      You 
have  been  talking  about  business  and  golf." 
60 


The  Eighth  Year 

"Merely  to  divert  Eve's  mind  from  dwelling  too  per- 
sistently upon  my  unworthy  self.  Together  we  have  been 
perfectly  happy." 

"Thanks.  I  have  tried  not  to  play  gooseberry.  Now 
for  my  prescription.  Eve  and  you  must  motor  together 
through  Provence.  It  is  heavenly  down  there  in  October. 
You  can  make  a  gastronomic  tour.  The  hotels  are  excel- 
lent.   Digesting  a  houillabaise  will  distract  both  your  minds." 

"Very  sound!  We  could  take  the  kids.  Eve  has  been 
pining  for  them,  I  expect.     Lord,  I  do  feel  a  brute !" 

"Possibly.  But  don't  talk  like  an  ass!  Eve  mustn't  be 
bothered  with  the  children.  Allay  her  anxiety  about  you, 
and  she'll  be  as  right  as  rain.  Get  a  good  dose  of  sun- 
bum  !  These  waters  have  bleached  you.  Amuse  her,  and 
amuse  yourself.  In  just  one  month  from  date  report  to 
me  in  Harley  Street." 

"You're  not  leaving  to-morrow?'* 

"If  I  stayed  I  should  alarm  her  unnecessarily.  My 
going  will  confirm  my  assurance  that  there  is  really  nothing 
serious.  See  to  it  that  she  takes  the  capsules  which  I  shall 
entrust  to  you.    One  after  each  square  meal." 

"Anything  else?" 

"Send  for  your  Rolls-Royce.  Live  in  the  open!  Eat, 
drink,  and  be  merry!" 

Next  day  Burdon  returned  to  London. 


IV 


He  did  not  see  his  two  patients  till  the  prescribed  month 
had  expired.  Then  they  presented  themselves  in  Harley 
Street,  two  sun-tanned  specimens  of  radiant  health.  Bur- 
don chuckled  as  he  listened  to  a  duet  of  praise  and  thanks- 
giving.    He  examined  each  patient  in   turn,   waving  his 

6i 


Some  Happenings 

stethoscope  as  if  it  were  the  baton  of  an  all-conquering 
field-marshal. 

"You  are,"  he  declared,  "absolutely  sound.  I  congratu- 
late you,  and  I  congratulate  myself.  This  is  the  sort  of 
moment  that  makes  a  hard-driven  doctor's  life  worth 
while.    How  are  the  kids?" 

''Simply  top-hole,"  said  Tom. 

"I  must  admit,"  said  Eve,  "that  mother  understands 
children  better  than  I  do." 

"A  word  with  you  alone,  old  man,"  said  Tom. 

The  men  retreated  to  Burdon's  dining-room. 

"I  haven't  told  her  yet,"  murmured  Tom,  "but  I  must." 

"I'll  tell  her,"  said  Burdon.  "You  stay  here  and  fortify 
yourself  with  a  whisky-and-potass.  Not  a  word!  In  five 
minutes  come  back  to  the  consulting-room.    'Shush-h-h-h !" 

He  hurried  away,  leaving  Tom  open-mouthed,  unable 
to  express  gratitude  and  relief.  Burdon  joined  Eve  and 
laughed. 

"What's  the  joke?"  she  asked. 

"I  can  answer  that.  It's  not  so  easy  to  locate  it.  Is  it  on 
me,  on  you,  or  on  Tom?'*  ' 

"I  beg  your  pardon?" 

"You  are  perfectly  well  and  happy?" 

"I  am,  thanks  to  your  wonderful  capsules." 

"And  dear  old  Tom  is  happy,  too?" 

"Ab— solutely !" 

"And  the  children  are " 

"As  bonny  as  children  can  be.  And  when  I  pause  to 
reflect  that  less  than  three  months  ago  Tom  was  ill,  and 
the  children  ailing,  and  the  seeds  of  disease  in  me,  I  call 
you  just  a  miracle- worker." 

"Thanks!  Here's  Tom.  I  want  to  make  confession. 
You  have  never  been  ill." 

"What?" 
62 


The  Eighth  Year 

Burdon,  standing  upon  his  hearthrug,  lifted  a  minatory 
forefinger. 

'This  is  the  eighth  and  critical  year  of  your  marriage, 
now  triumphantly  passed.     I  must  remind  you,  Eve — may 

I   call   you   Eve? Thanks.      I   must   remind   you   that, 

much  to  my  chagrin,  you  once  refused  to  employ  me  pro- 
fessionally. Tom  stuck  to  me  gallantly.  Because  of  that, 
and  because  I,  so  to  speak,  forced  my  services  on  you,  I 
shall  charge  no  fee.  Well,  quite  frankly,  I  was  hurt,  and 
this  year  in  Scotland  I  confess  that  I  was  not  altogether 
displeased  to  find  the  children  rather  the  worse  for  an 
eminent  colleague's  ministrations,  and  you" — he  stared 
keenly  at  Eve— ''on  the  ragged  edge  of  a  breakdown." 

Eve  could  hold  her  own.    She  replied  with  spirit: 

"I  don't  deny  it,  but  Tom,  under  your  fostering  care,  was 
breaking  down  too." 

"That  is  where  the  joke  comes  in.  Tom  has  not  been  ill 
either.  Under  my  advice — and  I  accept  full  responsibility 
— Tom  malingered.  That  Nauheim  visit  was  a  'plant.'  I 
faked  the  afifair.  I  wanted  to  separate  you  from  the 
kiddies,  because  you  were  fussing  them  and  yourself  into 
coffins.  Also,  Tom  needed  that  particular  attention  which 
only  a  loving  wife  can  give.  Tom  said  at  the  time  that 
it  wasn't  cricket.  Medicine  is  not  cricket,  although  cricket 
may  be  good  medicine.  In  fine,  I  beheld  five  persons,  all  of 
them  dear  to  me,  who  were  floundering  helplessly  in  their 
own  ignorance  and  inexperience.  Tom  needed  you,  and 
thanks  to  me  again  you  got  him.  The  children  needed 
plain  food,  wholesome  discipline,  and  a  rest  from  over- 
fussing.  Thanks  to  me  your  nursery  has  a  clean  bill  of 
health.     Now — where  is  the  joke?" 

Eve  looked  at  Tom.  The  motor  trip  through  Provence 
had  been  an  imperishable  memory.  Tom  looked  at  Eve, 
recalling  the  mothering. 

63 


Some  Happenings 

Eve  answered  the  question. 

"The  joke,"  she  said,  "is  on  poor  mother.  She  told  me 
this  morning  that  the  responsibihty  of  three  small  boys 
had  brought  on  acute  dyspepsia.  You  must  prescribe  for 
her." 

"Have  the  children  left  her?" 

"Yes ;  they  are  at  home." 

"Tell  your  mother,  v^ith  my  compliments  and  respects, 
that  she  v^^ill  be  perfectly  well  in  three  days." 

"Fee  or  no  fee,"  said  Tom,  "you  must  dine  with  us  at 
the  Ritz  to-night." 

"I  shall  be  delighted,"  Burdon  replied. 


64 


V 

THE  BLACK  VELVET  CAP 


IS  Monsieur  Gaston  de  Trevignon  at  home?" 
"Monsieur  le  Marquis  is  at  home,"  replied  the  man. 
Then  he  added  poHtely,  "The  late  Marquis  de  Trevignon 
died  six  months  ago." 

So  Gaston  had  come  into  his  kingdom  at  last.  A  king- 
dom, apparently,  of  forest,  moorland,  and  stream,  with  a 
half-ruined  chateau  standing  in  a  neglected  garden.  I  fol- 
lowed the  servant  into  a  stone-flagged  hall  of  fine  propor- 
tions, with  a  superb  granite  fireplace  at  one  end  and  a  noble 
flight  of  stairs,  of  the  best  Renaissance  period,  at  the  other. 
These  served  to  illustrate  the  contrast  between  a  lordly 
past  and  a  squalid  present,  for  the  /carpet,  a  genuine 
Aubusson,  was  in  rags,  and  every  article  of  furniture  pre- 
sented an  appearance  of  extreme  age  and  decay.  Even  the 
servant,  who  had  answered  (after  a  long  interval)  my  third 
impatient  ringing  of  the  bell,  seemed  as  old  as  the  spindle- 
legged  chairs.  And — it  may  have  been  my  fancy— but  I 
could  have  sworn  that  he  glared  at  me,  as  if  resenting  the 
advent  of  a  stranger  and  a  foreigner. 

A  moment  later  Gaston  came  in,  with  both  hands  out- 
stretched, and  the  gay  smile  I  remembered  so  well  upon 
his  lips.  Ten  years,  however,  had  changed  him  greatly, 
perhaps  not  for  the  worse.     He  had  lost  entirely  the  look 

65 


Some  Happenings 

of  youth,  always  so  enchanting,  but  he  had  gained  instead 
a  distinction — the  hall-mark  of  suffering  and  disappoint- 
ment bravely  endured. 

"You  remembered  me?"  he  said.  "You  have  hunted 
me  out?     How  charming  of  you!" 

He  was  so  glad  to  see  me  that  I  blushed,  unable  to 
explain  brutally  that  chance  *had  brought  me  to  his  door. 
Motoring  through  Brittany,  I  had  lost  my  way.  A  glance 
at  the  map  showed  me  to  be  within  a  few  kilometres  of 
Trevignon,  and  at  once  I  recalled  my  old  friend  and  felt 
impelled  to  visit  him.  I  had  an  indefinable  conviction 
that  he  was  at  home,  and  a  sense,  an  instinct,  that  the 
dropped  stitches  of  our  friendship  were  to  be  picked  up 
again.  It  is  a  fact  that  I  had  forgotten  his  name !  One  of 
the  many  young  Frenchmen  working  beside  me  in  Julien's 
atelier  in  Paris,  he  had  challenged  attention  by  his  bad 
drawing  and  abominable  colour.  A  greater  duffer  never 
spoiled  canvas.  But  we  liked  him  because  he  was  so  gay 
and  keen,  and  so  free  from  any  taint  of  jealousy.  We 
knew  that  he  was  the  nephew  and  heir  of  some  eccentric 
old  man  with  a  chateau  in  Brittany,  and  we  knew  also 
that  he  had  inherited  from  his  father  a  small  income, 
large  enough  to  pay  his  own  bills  and  some  of  the  bills  of 
^is  less  fortunate  fellow-students. 

"You  will  stay  with  me?    Thou  must  stay." 

The  familiar  ''Hi'  settled  the  matter. 

"All  the  same,"  continued  Gaston,  with  a  frown,  "this  is  a 
ruin,  as  you  see,  but  we  shall  forget  that  when  we  are 
talking  about  Montmartre." 

"Do  you  still  paint?"  I  asked. 

"Paint?"  he  echoed.     "I   have  to  paint  now."     Then, 

reading  some  astonishment  in  my   face,  he  plunged  into 

voluble  speech.    He  owned  the  chateau  and  the  rough  landes 

that  encompassed  it,  but  these,  unhappily,  were  mortgaged. 

66 


The  Black  Velvet  Cap 

As  he  was  speaking  the  old  servant  entered  the  hall. 
Gaston  told  him  to  bring  in  my  suit-case.  I  instructed  my 
chauffeur  to  drive  to  the  nearest  town  and  return  next  day 
for  orders.     Gaston  laughed,  rather  awkwardly. 

"I  can't  put  him  up  here/'  he  muttered.  He  examined 
the  car  with  enthusiasm.  "Lucky  beggar!  Made  out  of 
pictures — hein?" 

''Call  them  portraits." 

'*I  heard  you  were  painting  princesses — and  I  was  de- 
lighted." 

The  sincerity  of  his  tone  was  pleasant  to  hear.  A  decade 
had  not  soured  his  sweet  disposition. 

"Where  shall  I  put  monsieur's  suit-case?" 

To  my  surprise  Gaston  answered  in  Breton.  I  knew 
enough  to  understand  that  my.  host  was  turning  out  of 
his  own  room. 

"Mow  vieux,"  I  said  firmly.  *T  refuse  flatly  to  occupy 
your  room,  and  I'm  as  obstinate  as  I  used  to  be." 

"There  is  only  one  other  room  habitable,  and  that " 

"Yes?" 

"Was  the  one  in  which  my  unfortunate  uncle  was  mur- 
dered." 

"Murdered?" 

"Surely  you  read  the  case  in  the  papers?"  As  I  shook 
my  head,  he  continued,  lightly,  "He  was  robbed  and  mur- 
dered.   I'll  tell  you  about  it  later.    Meanwhile " 

"Put  me  into  your  uncle's  room." 

Gaston  made  a  wry  face. 

"You  English  are  cold-blooded.  I  couldn't  sleep  there 
myself.    The  villagers  say  it  is  haunted." 

"So  much  the  better.     I  want  to  see  a  ghost." 

"It's  locked  up.  Joking  apart,  I  dislike  to  have  you 
sleep  in  that  room.  Coadic  wouldn't  sleep  there  for  a 
thousand  francs — wouldst  thou,  Yann?" 

67 


Some  Happenings 


*'Not  for  ten  thousand,  monsieur."  He  shuddered 
slightly.  In  his  odd,  harsh  voice  he  added:  "It  is  locked, 
and  I  have  the  key,  but,  nevertheless,  it  is  not  empty." 

"That  settles  it!"  said  I  gaily.  "I  must  pass  a  night 
there.  If  I  encounter  a  spirit  I  shall  ask  him  many  ques- 
tions." 

"Have  thy  own  way."  Gaston  turned  to  Coadic.  "Put 
monsieur's  things  into  my  uncle's  room.  It  is,  at  any  rate, 
as  dry  as  a  bone,  and  the  bed  is  comfortable." 

-But " 

**Do  as  I  tell  you,"  said  Gaston  irritably.  The  old  man 
bowed  and  went  out. 

**A  faithful  servant,  but  queer.  All  we  Bretons  are 
superstitious,  although  we  hate  to  admit  it.  Coadic  has 
never  got  over  my  uncle's  death." 

"It  must  have  been  an  awful  shock  to  you?" 

*T  expected  it,"  he  answered  curtly. 

"Expected  it?"  I  echoed  in  astonishment. 

"Yes.  Come  up  to  the  studio  and  have  a  look  at  my 
machins/' 

He  turned  abruptly  and  I  followed  him  upstairs  and  into  a 
large  room  upon  the  first  floor.  Two  things  struck  me. 
My  poor  friend  had  been  working  furiously  and — alas ! — 
to  no  purpose.  His  drawing  seemed  to  have  improved;  his 
colour  remained  atrocious. 

"Your  candid  opinion,"  he  said  eagerly. 

I  hesitated,  dumb  with  distress.  Then  I  exclaimed: 
"How  you  have  come  on  in  drawing!" 

Gaston's  face  beamed. 

"I'm  thinking  of  a  one-man  exhibition  in  London,"  he 
said.     "Good   idea — hein?" 

"We  must  have  a  talk  about  that  later,"  said  I.  "You 
have  a  lot  of  stuff.     Halloa!    What's  this?" 

The  head  of  a  girl,  delightfully  drawn  in  pastel,  with  a 
68 


The  Black  Velvet  Cap 

freshness  of  colour,  a  delicacy  of  tone,  and  an  apprehen- 
sion of  values  quite  out  of  the  ordinary,  smiled  at  me  from 
the  wall. 

"Ah,"  said  Gaston,  "that's  my  Argentine." 

He  took  down  the  pastel  and  placed  it  in  a  better  light. 

"What  do  you  think  of  my  Argentine?" 

"It's  the  best  thing  you've  done.  You  must  stick  to 
pastel.    It's " 

He  interrupted  me,  frowning.  "I  can  do  better  work 
than  that.  I  want  your  opinion  of  the  girl,  not  of  the 
picture." 

"Oh!" 

*'A  friend  painted  it.    If  you  could  see  the  original " 

"She  must  be  perfectly  charming." 

"She  is,"  said  Gaston  softly.  With  an  ingenuous  gesture 
he  laid  his  hand  upon  my  sleeve.  "I  hope  to  marry  her 
some  day.     That  is  why  I  have  worked  so  hard." 

I  stared  at  the  sweet  face  upon  the  easel.  Did  the 
winning  of  this  dear  creature  depend  upon  the  success  oi 
her  lover  as  a  painter?  Why  had  he  not  devoted  his  time 
and  energies  to  something  else?  Then  I  remembered  that 
he  was  an  avowed  Legitimist,  and  as  such  disqualified  for 
public  life. 

"Are  you  engaged  to  her?"  I  asked. 

"I  was.  It  was  broken  off  by  her  people  a  few  months 
ago.  I  don't  blame  them.  Sit  down !  I  saw  your  look  of 
amazement  when  I  told  you  that  I  expected  my  uncle  to 
be  murdered.  He  had  the  most  remarkable  collection  of 
gems  in  France,  and  he  kept  them  in  his  bedroom." 

"I  see.  The  sale  of  these  gems  would  have  made  you 
a  rich  man." 

Gaston  nodded.  "They  were  valued  at  fifty  thousand 
pounds."  He  added  details.  More  than  one  previous 
attempt  at  burglary  had  been  frustrated  by  the  vigilance  of 

69 


Some  Happenings 

old  Coadic.  Finally,  the  uncle  was  found  dead  in  his  bed- 
room. The  police  failed  to  discover  either  the  murderer 
or  the  gems. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  I  asked,  "that  not  one  has  been 
placed  on  the  market?" 

"Not  one." 

"And  the  murderer  left  no  trace?" 

"He  vanished  into  thin  air." 

"What  an  extraordinary  crime!" 

"It  baffled  even  £pine,  the  famous  Chief  of  Police.  I 
must  tell  you  that  £pine  did  not  believe  that  my  uncle 
was  murdered,  and  the  doctor  supported  his  view.  They 
held  that  he  died  of  shock." 

"It  comes  to  the  same  thing." 

"Exactly.  He  was  found  dead  upon  the  floor,  near  the 
window  through  which  the  robber  escaped." 

"How  did  the  man  get  in?" 

"That  is  darkest  mystery.  My  uncle  had  special  bars 
and  bolts  to  his  room,  as  you  will  see.  The  robber  came 
through  the  window;  but  wait  till  you  look  out  of  that 
window." 

"You  were  here  at  the  time?" 

"Yes.    For  a  day  or  two  ;fipine  suspected  me." 

He  recited  a  few  details.  The  late  marquis,  an  eccentric, 
had  spent  most  of  his  life  in  Paris.  The  collection  of  rare 
gems  had  become  an  overmastering  passion.  Against  the 
warnings  and  protests  of  his  nephew,  he  had  insisted  upon 
living  at  Trevignon.  It  was  understood  between  him  and 
Gaston  that  the  collection  was  to  be  sold  after  his  death. 

"We  were  talking  of  it  the  very  night  he  died,"   said 

Gaston.    "The  question  of  my  marriage  had  come  up,  and 

he  told  me  that  he  was  suffering  from  organic  disease  of 

the  heart,  and  that  I  should  not  have  to  wait  long  for  my 

70 


The  Black  Velvet  Cap 

Argentine.  He  was  not  a  bad  sort.  There  he  is;  a  rough 
sketch  of  mine." 

He  indicated  an  old  man  with  white  hair,  dressed  in  old- 
fashioned  black  clothes,  possibly  the  very  suit  which  hung 
loosely  upon  the  bony  frame  of  his  old  servant,  and  wear- 
ing a  black  velvet  skull-cap.  The  best  thing  in  the  study 
was  this  cap,  and  I  said  so. 

"Une  petite  note  qui  chante,"  said  Gaston. 

Presently  we  crossed  a  wide  corridor  and  entered  a 
room  even  larger  than  the  studio.  It  was  excellently  fur- 
nished, and  illuminated  by  two  windows  upon  the  side 
opposite  to  the  door.  The  bed,  a  massive  four-poster  with 
brocaded  curtains,  faced  the  fireplace.  Gaston  showed  me 
the  bolts  and  bars  of  the  door;  then  he  walked  to  the 
windows.  The  first  of  these  evidently  had  not  been 
opened  for  many  years.  Gaston  opened  the  other,  a 
diamond-paned  casement. 

"Look  down,"  he  said  curtly. 

We  were  above  the  cour  d'honnmr,  grey  with  ancient 
paving-stones,  in  the  interstices  of  which  grass  grew 
rankly.  Beneath  the  window  ran  a  narrow  ledge  of 
granite;  below  this  was  a  leaden  pipe,  fantastically  orna- 
mented, which  ran  perpendicular  to  the  ground. 

"The  robber  climbed  up  that.  Coadic  came  to  me  next 
morning  in  great  agitation,  saying  that  he  couldn't  get  into 
his  master's  room.  It  took  a  stout  blacksmith  a  couple  of 
hours  to  force  an  entrance.  My  uncle  lay  just  there" — 
he  indicated  the  spot — "and  the  gems  were  gone.  The 
coffer  which  held  them  was  found  at  the  bottom  of  yonder 
well." 

I  stared  out  of  the  window.  I  looked  up  and  down. 
The  ledge  ended  abruptly  at  an  angle  of  the  wall. 

"The  robber  must  have  been  a  bit  of  a  cHmber." 

"Nothing  is  more  certain.     He  swarmed  up  the  pipe, 

71 


Some  Happenings 

pulled  himself  on  to  that  ledge,  and  thence  through  the 
window." 

*'How  do  you  know  he  came  by  the  pipe?" 

*'It  is  lead;  there  were  marks  upon  it.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  those  marks  lifted  suspicion  from  me." 

*'If  he  had  dropped  on  to  the  ledge  from  above " 

''Impossible — without  elaborate  arrangements  of  ropes 
and  planks  on  the  roof.  ;fipine  tried  to  squeeze  a  small 
boy  down  the  chimney.     The  walls  are  solid  granite." 

"And  the  other  servants?" 

"There  were  no  other  servants.  Coadic  and  my  uncle 
lived  alone ;  a  woman  came  in  daily  to  do  the  cooking.  We 
continue  the  arrangement." 

"Did  you  ever  see  these  gems?" 

"See  them?  A  thousand  times.  I  saw  them  the  night 
he  died  in  this  very  room.  He  slept  with  them.  I  tell  you 
he  adored  them.  He  sacrificed  everything  for  them.  He 
thought  an  intaglio  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  the  world. 
Perhaps  yon  can  understand  that?" 

He  laid  a  slight  emphasis  on  the  pronoun. 

"What  makes  you  say  so?" 

"Don't  you  collect?" 

"Not  I." 

"But  you  wear  a  fine  specimen." 

He  indicated  a  ring  that  had  been  given  to  me,  a  head 
of  Achilles,  very  delicately  cut.  Gaston  took  my  hand  in 
his  and  examined  it. 

"A  beautiful  emerald,"  he  murmured. 

"Full  of  flaws." 

"Most  of  them  are.    But  what  a  colour!" 

"What  can  have  become  of  these  gems?" 

"fipine  is  of  opinion  that  they  have  been  sold  in  America. 
And  collectors,  he  says,  are  most  unscrupulous,  and  some 
are  as  crazy  as  my  poor  uncle.  £pine  told  me,  in  confi- 
72 


The  Black  Velvet  Cap 

dence,  the  names  of  two  millionaires  who  would  have 
bought  the  Trevignon  intaglios  without  asking  any  ques- 
tions. So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  my  dear  fellow,  the 
confounded  stones  have  ceased  to  be.  Let  us  go  back  to 
the  studio  and  talk  about  painting." 

We  talked  ''shop"  till  dinner-time.  Coadic  brought  hot 
water  to  my  room.  As  he  placed  the  brass  pitcher  upon 
the  washing-stand  he  said,  heavily,  ''The  water  is  nearly 
boiHng."    Saying  this,  he  stared  at  my  ring. 

"I  always  take  it  off,"  said  I. 

"Might  I  look  at  it,  if  monsieur  pleases?" 

I  handed  it  to  him.  His  hand  trembled  as  he  took  it,  and 
it  seemed  to  me  that  he  eyed  it  with  repugnance,  as  if  it 
were  some  malefic  object. 

"It  is  genuine,"  he  said  calmly,  returning  it  to  me.  "I 
thought  for  an  instant  it  was  one  of  the  imitations." 

"You  care  about  these  things?" 

"With  reason,  monsieur.  I  knew  every  gem  in  the 
Trevignon  collection." 

"Then,  if  necessary,  you  could  identify  them?" 

"Certainly;  but  I  shall  not  be  asked  to  do  so." 

"Why  are  you  so  sure  of  that?" 

The  old  man  nodded  his  head  solemnly. 

"Because,  monsieur,  the  man  who  stole  the  gems  was  a 
collector  himself,  not  an  ordinary  thief." 

"Then  fipine  ought  to  search  the  world  for  a  collector 
young  and  active  enough  to  swarm  up  that  pipe  and  pull 
himself  on  to  that  ledge." 

"I  ventured  to  say  as  much  to  Monsieur  :£pine  myself." 

He  bowed  and  withdrew  silently. 

Dinner  was  served  a  few  minutes  later.  Coadic  waited 
on  us,  and  filled  my  glass  with  wine.     Gaston  drank  cider. 

"This  is  wonderful  wine,"  I  observed. 

"Romance,  '87,"    replied    Gaston.      "There    are  a   few 

73 


Some  Happenings 

boftles  left.  My  uncle  liked  it ;  drank  a  bottle  to  himself. 
He  said  it  was  too  good  to  share  with  a  friend.  Indirectly, 
I  have  thought  that  this  particular  wine  cost  him  his  life. 
He  had  a  bottle  the  night  he  was  murdered.  The  doctor 
was  of  opinion  that  had  he  drunk  cider  he  would  have  heard 
the  man  opening  the  window.  He  had  a  pistol  under  his 
pillow,  and  knew  how  to  use  it." 

I  sipped  the  Burgundy,  reflecting  that  it  was  the  finest 
wine  I  had  ever  tasted;  the  bottled  sunshine  of  the  Cote 
d'Or.    I  entreated  my  host  to  taste  it,  but  he  refused. 

*'It's  a  superb  wine,  but  I've  an  absurd  and  indefensible 
prejudice  against  it — for  the  reason  I  have  mentioned." 
Very  simply,  he  added :  '*!  was  fond  of  my  uncle,  in 
spite  of  his  eccentricity." 

This  surprised  me,  for  I  was  sensible  of  an  ever-increas- 
ing exasperation  against  a  selfish  monomaniac  who  had 
sacrificed  his  own  flesh  and  blood  for  the  sake  of  a  few 
so-called  precious  stones!  And  the  coffer  (which  I  had 
seen  in  the  studio)  was  light  enough  and  small  enough 
to  be  carried  easily  in  one  hand. 

We  went  to  bed  early.  As  he  bade  me  good-night  Gaston 
said,  seriously,  "Are  you  quite  certain  you  won't  change 
your  mind?" 

I  laughed. 

"I  can  hardly  keep  my  eyes  open.  That  Romance  is 
strong  drink." 

"I  am  so  glad  you  liked  it." 


II 


I  began  to  undress  as  soon  as  I  was  alone.  About  to 
jump  into  bed,  I  noticed  that  the  window  was  shut.  I 
opened  it  and  glanced  out.    A  moon,  nearly  at  the  full,  was 

74 


The  Black  Velvet  Cap 

playing  hide-and-seek  with  some  dark  clouds.  For  the 
moment  it  illuminated  the  courtyard  and  the  fagade  of 
the  chateau.  Poor  Gaston !  To  own  so  charming  a  home, 
to  know  that  a  few  hundred  pounds  would  make  it  habit- 
able, a  shrine  for  the  delightful  creature  he  loved,  and  now 
— unless  a  miracle  happened — he  would  be  constrained  to 
live  on  here  alone,  seeing  his  ancient  house  fall  to  pieces, 
powerless  to  avert  its  destruction.  What  an  abominable 
fate ! 

Why  had  not  the  accursed  thief  fallen  and  broken  his 
neck? 

Examining  more  carefully  the  ledge  and  the  pipe,  I  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  the  descent  must  have  been  fairly 
easy.  But  the  ascent  was  difficult  enough  to  have  taxed  the 
powers  of  a  professional  gymnast. 

Again  I  was  about  to  slip  into  bed,  when  I  perceived 
that  the  draught  from  the  window  had  blown  open  the 
door.  I  shut  it,  but  it  opened  again.  Impatiently  I  bolted 
it,  divining  that  the  hasp  was  worn  out.  A  second  later 
I  was  between  the  sheets — and  asleep. 

When  I  woke  I  failed  to  realise  where  I  was,  but  I  lay 
still,  a  sort  of  vagabond  in  slumber's  suburbs,  wandering 
idly  here  and  there,  not  curious  and  yet  not  incurious,  fol- 
lowing the  will  o'  the  wisp  Fancy,  whithersoever  the  wanton 
nymph  might  lead.  I  can  swear  that  I  was  not  thinking 
of  Gaston's  uncle.  I  was  vaguely  conscious  of  occupying 
a  moonlit  room  and  an  extremely  comfortable  bed. 

Presently  this  pleasing  state  of  somnolence  changed  its 
character.  I  heard  a  faint  sound.  Certainly,  at  this  mo- 
ment, I  woke  up,  and  I  told  myself  that  there  was  a  mouse 
or  a  rat  under  the  bed.  I  went  to  sleep  again,  hoping  that 
it  was  not  a  rat.  Again  I  woke  with  a  disagreeable  start. 
This  time  I  could  hear  nothing,  but  I  experienced  the 
common   and   always   detestable   impression   of   not   being 

75 


Some  Happenings 

alone  in  the  room.  I  reasoned  with  myself,  remembering 
that  I  had  bolted  the  heavy  door.  And  yet  every  fibre  of 
my  being  told  me  that  some  living  creature  stood  close 
to  me. 

My  first  impulse  urged  me  to  leave  my  bed  and  search 
the  room;  an  impulse  I  dismissed  as  cowardly,  one  to  be 
cast  out  as  it  were  an  unclean  spirit.  I  shut  my  eyes,  and 
tested  the  soporific  of  playing  over  a  recent  game  of  golf. 
I  did  the  first  hole  in  four,  and  was  comfortably  approach- 
ing the  second  green,  when  I  seemed  to  hear  a  faint  sigh. 

I  opened  my  eyes  and  saw  an  amorphous  shadow  on  the 
wall  to  the  right  of  the  bed.  The  shadow  moved.  Moving, 
it  assumed  the  form  of  some  monstrous  toad.  It  re- 
mained still,  but  it  deepened  in  tint,  and  then  faded  to  a 
faint  blur.  Purposely  I  had  drawn  the  left  curtain  of  the 
bed,  so  as  to  prevent  the  moonlight  from  falling  on  my 
face.  The  shadow,  therefore,  was  cast  by  something  or 
somebody  between  the  window  and  the  bed. 

The  uncanny  thing  moved  again,  faded,  and  vanished. 
This  time  I  recognised  in  the  shadow  the  vague  semblance, 
an  outline  only,  of  a  man. 

I  sat  up  in  bed,  making  no  noise,  straining  my  ears 
rather  than  my  eyes,  for  the  moon  had  slipped  behind  a 
cloud.  Peering  round  the  edge  of  the  curtain,  I  saw, 
silhouetted  against  the  window,  the  figure  of  a  man  with  his 
face  turned  away  from  me.  In  the  very  dim  light  he 
appeared  to  be  staring  intently  at  some  object  upon  the 
dressing-table.  Suddenly,  as  the  moon  reappeared,  the  table 
was  flooded  with  light,  and  I  saw  that  the  object  upon 
which  my  visitor's  gaze  was  focussed  was  my  emerald 
ring.  The  man  himself  had  his  back  to  me,  and,  his  head 
being  bent  over  the  table,  I  could  make  nothing  of  it  except 
this — he  wore  a  black  velvet  skull-cap. 

''Une  petite  note  qui  chante." 

76 


The  Black  Velvet  Cap 

Certainly  the  confounded  thing  started  a  buzzing  in  my 
head;  every  nerve  seemed  to  be  jangling.  Often  and  often 
I  had  expressed  a  wish  to  meet  a  ghost,  and  now — let  me 
be  entirely  frank — I  was  frightened.  The  sombre  figure 
did  not  move;  nor  did  I.  But  my  brain  became  active. 
Passages  from  books  dealing  with  psychical  phenomena 
flitted  into  my  mind  like  bats.  Thousands  of  men  and 
women  believe  that,  under  certain  conditions,  the  spirits 
of  the  departed  return  to  this  earth  and  may  be  seen  of 
the  living.  The  dead  marquis  had  exhibited  an  inordinate 
passion  for  gems — a  passion  entailing  misery  and  suffering 
upon  his  nephew  and  a  sweet,  innocent  girl.  Was  it 
incredible — was  it  not  rather  probable  and  just — that  the 
spirit  of  this  egotist  should  be  constrained  to  linger  in 
expiation  near  the  spot  whence  it  had  been  torn  from  the 
clay?  And  if  it  were  true  that  even  in  death  the  ruling 
passion  of  a  life  should  remain  strong,  might  it  not  be  said 
with  greater  truth  that  the  same  passion  would  remain 
strong,  or  stronger,  after  death? 

Summoning  what  moral  courage  I  possessed,  I  deter- 
mmed  to  address  my  visitor. 

*'Who  are  you?"  I  said,  in  French. 

As  I  spoke  I  stepped  on  to  the  floor,  and,  as  ill  luck 
would  have  it,  the  moon  once  more  disappeared,  leaving 
me  in  Cimmerian  darkness.  I  could  just  discern  the  black 
figure  between  the  window  and  me.  It  seemed  to  assume 
enormous  proportions :  an  optical  illusion  due  to  the  fact 
that  it  had  silently  approached  me.  An  instant  later  I 
felt  cold  fingers  at  my  throat.  The  attack  was  so  swift  and 
unexpected  that  I  fell  backwards  upon  the  bed,  which  was 
behind  me,  and  therefore  an  obstacle  in  the  line  of  retreat. 
I  can  remember  feeling  the  balls  of  the  man's  thumbs 
upon  my  gullet  and  a  sensation  of  acute  pain  at  the  back 
of  my  eyes. 

77 


Some  Happenings 

When  I  recovered  consciousness  it  was  broad  daylight. 
I  was  lying  in  bed,  and  some  one  was  hammering  at  the 
barred  door. 

I  admitted — Gaston. 

''Had  a  good  night?"  he  asked. 

Still  half  dazed,  I  glanced  round  me.  There  was  no 
sign  of  a  struggle.     I  told  Gaston  what  had  passed. 

"Nightmare,"  said  he,  with  a  smile. 

"No,"  said  I. 

Gaston  laughed  genially. 

"Come,  come!  If  your  visitor  was  a  man,  how  did  he 
get  in?" 

"How  did  the  murderer  get  in?" 

"Why  should  a  robber  wear  a  skull-cap?  If  it  were 
the  spirit  of  my  poor  uncle,  why  should  he  attack  you? 
He  was  the  mildest  person  imaginable.  After  a  cold  bath 
and  a  Breakfast  you  will  laugh  at  your  own  story." 

As  he  was  speaking  Coadic  came  in  with  my  shaving 
water. 

"Monsieur  has  seen  my  uncle's  ghost,"  said  Gaston 
gaily. 

"I  am  not  surprised,"  replied  the  old  man  sombrely. 

"The  bath-room,  my  one  extravagance,  is  near  the  studio. 
Are  you  ready?" 

"Give  me  five  minutes  more,"  said  I. 

Gaston  went  out,  leaving  Coadic  pottering  about.  In 
my  rather  irritable  frame  of  mind  his  slow,  silent  move- 
ments exasperated  me. 

"You  can  go,"  I  said  abruptly. 

Alone,  I  tried  to  determine  whether  the  events  of  the 
night  were  or  were  not  nightmare.  I  reconstituted  the 
scene.  Upon  the  table,  where  the  moonbeams  had  fallen, 
lay  my  ring.  If  my  visitor  was  flesh  and  blood,  why  had 
he  not  taken  it?  I  went  to  the  glass  and  examined  my 
78 


The  Black  Velvet  Cap 

throat.  Two  red  marks  were  visible:  enough  to  provoke 
curiosity,  not  conviction.  Gaston  would  laugh  and  say  they 
were  self-inflicted.  I  examined  the  window  and  the  ledge 
beneath  it.  I  stared  at  the  solid  stone  walls  of  the  room. 
Lastly  I  lay  down  upon  the  floor. 

I  was  about  to  get  up,  when  I  spied  something  at  the 
side  of  the  bed,  almost  concealed  by  the  brocaded  curtain. 
With  an  exclamation,  I  picked  it  up. 

It  was  a  black  velvet  skull-cap. 

As  I  was  staring  at  it,  half-stupefied,  I  heard  Gaston's 
voice  in  the  corridor,  calling  me. 

Instantly  it  occurred  to  me  that  it  would  be  edifying 
and  amusing  to  let  him  find  the  cap.  I  replaced  it  under  the 
curtain  and  went  to  my  bath. 

The  cold  water  acted  like  an  astringent  tonic  upon  my 
weakened  sensibilities.  I  called  to  Gaston  as  I  passed  his 
room. 

"Come  to  me  when  you're  dressed." 

Entering  my  own  room,  I  went  straight  to  the  curtain 
and  lifted  it. 

The  cap  had  vanished ! 

I  sat  down  upon  the  edge  of  my  bed,  afraid  to  face  the 
facts,  with  the  fear  gaining  strength  that  I  was  going  out 
of  my  mind  My  eyes  wandered  to  the  dressing-table  and 
fixed  themselves,  aimlessly,  upon  the  ring.  Another 
mystery!  The  ring  was  not  quite  in  the  same  place. 
Somebody  had  moved  it  while  I  was  in  the  bath-room! 

At  once  the  fog  upon  my  faculties  lifted  and  I  saw 
clearly.  Coadic  had  moved  the  ring  and  taken  away  the 
cap.  Coadic,  then,  was  my  nocturnal  visitor.  Swooping 
upon  the  truth,  I  realised  the  significance  of  his  presence 
in  my  room.  Like  his  old  master,  he  had  become  a  mono- 
maniac. The  temptation  to  see  and  touch  my  emerald  had 
been  too  much  for  him.     Probably  he  had  reckoned  upon 

79 


Some  Happenings 

the  soporific  effects  of  a  bottle  of  Burgundy,  and  had 
known  that  he  was  running  slight  risks.  But,  for  that 
matter,  did  a  monomaniac  ever  pause  to  reckon  risks  ? 

The  next  question  was  not  easily  answered. 

How  did  he  get  into  my  room? 

That  question  I  never  answered  then,  for  at  that  mo- 
ment my  mind  leaped  forward  to  the  inevitable  conviction 
that  Coadic  had  stolen  the  gems.  Would  it  be  possible 
to  prove  this? 

Gaston  came  in  whistling. 

He  began  to  chaff  me.  I  submitted  with  my  tongue  in 
my  cheek,  unwilling  to  take  the  ingenuous  chatterbox  into 
my  confidence  till  I  had  devised  some  sort  of  plan.  At  all 
hazards  Coadic  must  be  hoodwinked.  Being  insane,  he 
might  destroy  both  the  gems  and  himself  if  he  had  reason 
to  suppose  that  discovery  was  impending.  The  guileless 
Gaston  would  betray  the  truth  with  a  glance  or  a  gesture. 
Happily,  the  first  breakfast  in  France  is  not  a  serious 
affair.  We  finished  our  coffee,  and  then  Gaston  left  me 
to  smoke  a  cigarette  under  a  fine  chestnut  tree.  I  could  see 
the  well  and  the  fagade  from  my  seat  under  the  tree. 
Knowing  that  Coadic  was  the  robber,  I  was  enabled  to 
co-ordinate  my  facts  with  a  cumulative  force  denied  to 
Monsieur  fipine.  For  instance,  the  ascent  by  the  water- 
pipe  and  the  rise  on  to  the  ledge  were,  obviously,  feats 
beyond  an  old  man's  powers.  But  he  had  strong  hands,  and 
the  descent  presented  no  great  difficulty. 

How  did  he  get  in? 

The  answer  to  the  problem  came  to  me  quickly.  It 
would  have  come  as  quickly  to  the  famous  Chief  of  Police 
had  he  had  the  smallest  reason  to  suspect  a  servant  who 
had  served  his  master  faithfully  for  thirty  years. 

He  must  have  been  concealed   in  the  room  when  his 
master  went  to  bed. 
80 


The  Black  Velvet  Cap 

Here,  however,  a  difficulty  obstructed  my  advance. 
Granting  that  Coadic  was  prepared  to  run  risks  to  steal 
the  gems,  was  it  likely  that  he  would  run  equal,  if  not 
greater,  risks  merely  to  look  at  an  intaglio  not  so  fine  as 
at  least  a  score  already  in  his  possession  ?  Was  he  so  mad 
as  that?    I  could  hardly  believe  it. 

Nevertheless,  I  was  certain  that  the  gems  were  con- 
cealed, with  a  maniac's  cunning,  in  or  near  the  chateau. 
How  to  find  their  hiding-place  began  to  worry  me. 

I  smoked  another  cigarette  before  I  joined  Gaston.  Soon 
afterwards  Coadic  came  up  and  said  that  my  chauffeur  had 
driven  over  for  orders. 

"You  will  stay  a  day  or  two  longer?"  said  Gaston. 

I  caught  a  quiver  of  expectation  upon  Coadic's  lips. 

"Forgive  me,"  I  replied  slowly,  "but  I  must  leave  you 
this  afternoon." 

"I  can't  press  any  friend  to  stay  in  this  abominable  hole," 
said  Gaston.    "You  won't  leave  till  this  afternoon?" 

"No." 

"Pack  monsieur's  suit-case,"  said  Gaston  to  Coadic. 

"I  am  anxious  to  inspect  every  nook  and  cranny  of  your 
chateau,"  said  I. 

Once  more  I  detected  a  gleam  of  suspicion  in  the  eyes 
which  turned  uneasily  from  mine. 

"There  is  nothing  to  see,"  said  Gaston. 

"You  forget  that  I'm  mad  on  Renaissance  architecture. 
Send  Coadic  with  me,  if  it  bores  you." 

Although  he  protested  at  first,  the  suggestion  pleased 
him.  An  hour  or  so  later  Coadic  and  I  started.  There 
was  indeed  little  to  see  inside  the  house — the  walls  were 
bare,  the  flooring  rotten,  and  the  rooms  had  been  gutted 
of  furniture. 

"The  late  marquis  sold  everything  to  buy  gems?" 

"Yes,"  said  Coadic  sullenly. 

8i 


Some  Happenings 

To  avert  still  further  his  suspicions,  I  spoke  of  the 
events  of  the  previous  night  as  a  bad  dream.  Then  I 
began  to  talk  about  gems,  asking  questions  and  receiving 
answers  more  or  less  guarded  as  Coadic  became  excited. 

If  I  had  experienced  any  doubt  as  to  his  madness  it  was 
resolved  quickly.  His  eyes  glittered,  his  face  and  hands 
twitched.  Any  other  subject  turned  him  into  a  graven 
image. 

**That  is  all,  monsieur,"  he  said,  as  we  came  out  of  tKe 
fine  stone-vaulted  kitchen. 

"You  have  not  shown  me  your  room,"  said  I.  *Ts  there 
not  a  lit  clos  in  it,  an  old  armoire,  something  or  other  in- 
teresting?" 

With  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders  he  turned  to  the  right. 
As  I  had  divined,  his  room  was  on  the  ground  floor,  with 
a  small  window  opening  on  to  the  cour  d'honneiir,  and  close 
to  the  water-pipe.  Like  all  the  windows  level  with  the 
ground,  it  was  heavily  barred. 

"Strong  bars,"  said  I. 

"Monsieur  is  right,"  said  Coadic  nervously. 

I  made  certain  that  one  at  least  of  the  bars  was  remov- 
able.   I  strolled  to  the  window  and  looked  out. 

"You  are  close  to  the  pipe,"  I  said  carelessly.  "But  you 
heard  nothing  upon  that  night?" 

"Nothing,"  he  repeated;  but  the  pupils  of  his  eyes  grew 
larger  and  he  slightly  moistened  his  lips.  My  questions, 
my  presence  in  his  room  made  him  uneasy.  I  looked  about 
me.  The  floor  was  of  stone — solid  slabs  of  granite.  The 
furnishings  were  of  the  simplest — a  truckle  bed,  a  cheap 
chest  of  drawers,  a  wash-hand  stand,  and  a  small  table. 

"Where  do  you  keep  the  gems?"  said  I. 

He  said  nothing,  but  his  eyes  glared  into  mine,  and  I 
saw  the  veins  stand  out  on  his  forehead. 

"Come,  come !"  said  I  impatiently.     "The  game  is  up. 

^2 


The  Black  Velvet  Cap 

You  were  in  my  room  last  night.  You  left  behind  your 
skull-cap— ar.d  I  found  it  by  the  curtain.  The  marks  of 
your  thumbs  are  on  my  windpipe  at  this  instant." 

He  gave  a  hoarse  cry  and  jumped  to  the  window.  I 
supposed  that  he  wished  to  escape.  He  soon  undeceived 
me,  for  he  plucked  out  the  iron  bar  and  attacked  me  with 
insane  fury.  I  avoided  his  first  wild  blow  with  a  side- 
step, which,  however,  placed  me  in  an  angle  of  the  room. 
Too  late  I  regretted  my  folly  in  not  speaking  to  Gaston. 

This  time  the  madman  advanced  cautiously,  with  up- 
lifted weapon.  Shielding  my  head  with  my  right  hand,  I 
closed.  He  struck  hard,  but  my  left  fist  landed  full  on 
the  point  of  his  jaw.  He  went  over  backwards,  striking 
his  head  against  the  iron  bed.  The  bar  clattered  upon  the 
stone  flags.  Instantly  I  secured  it,  but  Coadic  lay  still, 
with  a  face  the  colour  of  dirty  tallow.  As  I  stood  over 
him,  Gaston  rushed  in. 

"He  has  injured  my  arm,"  said  I.     "He's  a  dangerous 


maniac." 


Between  us  we  got  him  on  to  the  bed.  He  breathed 
stertorously,  but  his  eyes  remained  closed.  I  muttered 
hastily  half-a-dozen  words  of  explanation. 

"The  gems  must  be  at  Trevignon,"  I  said. 

"We  can  force  him  to  speak  when  he  recovers,"  said 
Gaston. 

But  within  a  few  hours  it  became  plain  that  Coadic  might 
die  without  regaining  articulate  speech.  The  blow — not  a 
very  heavy  one — the  fall,  or,  more  probably,  the  horror 
of  discovery,  or  the  fear  of  being  deprived  of  the  gems, 
had  turned  him  into  a  raving  lunatic.  The  doctor  who 
bandaged  my  arm  insisted  upon  his  removal  at  once  to  a 
maison  de  sante.  Gaston,  from  the  first,  refused  to  believe 
that  the  servant  had  murdered  his  master. 

83 


Some  Happenings 

*'He  loved  my  uncle,  I  tell  you,"  he  repeated  obstinately. 
"His  grief  was  not  simulated.     I  swear  to  that." 

'Terhaps  you  will  affirm  that  he  didn't  take  the  gems?" 
"If  he  took  the  gems  we  shall  find  them." 
"I  shan't  leave  this  house  till  we  do,"  I  answered,  irri- 
tably. 

"The  chateau  must  be  searched  by  an  expert." 
His  coolness  exasperated  me.  To  be  honest,  I  did  not 
want  an  expert  to  find  the  gems.  I  was  enthusiastically 
keen  to  discover  them  myself.  We  had  searched  Coadic's 
room  very  thoroughly  and  found  nothing  except  the  skull- 
cap. But,  lying  awake  the  same  night,  I  had  time  to  con- 
sider the  problem  with  a  certain  sense  of  detachment.  It 
was  obvious  that  Coadic  did  not  nm  the  risk  of  my  dis- 
covering him  merely  to  stare  at  my  emerald  ring.  Had 
his  madness  been  strong  enough  to  justify  such  a  risk,  he 
would  have  stolen  the  emerald,  regardless  of  everything. 
No,  another  motive  had  forced  him  to  enter  my  room. 
What? 

I  could  think  of  only  one.  He  must  have  kept  the  gems 
in  his  late  master's  bedroom,  of  which  he  had  the  key,  to 
which,  apparently,  he  alone  had  access.  After  the  police 
had  left  the  chateau,  what  safer  hiding-place  could  be 
found  ?  Here,  and  here  only,  he  could  gloat  over  the  spoil, 
finger  and  caress  his  beloved  stones.  The  room  was  said 
to  be  haunted.  It  had  been  haunted  by  Coadic.  I  got  out 
of  bed  and  looked  at  my  watch.  It  was  three  in  the  morn- 
ing.   I  knew  that  the  gems  were  a  few  feet  away. 

Then  began  an  absurd  and  painful  search,  simplified, 
however,  by  the  fact  that  the  walls  were  of  stone  and  the 
floor  of  solid  oak.  Incidentally,  I  discovered  not  a  single 
mouse-hole.    The  room  was  mouse-proof. 

By  this  time  I  had  examined  minutely  every  object  except 
the  huge  bed.    Now  I  stood,  candle  in  hand,  staring  at  its 
84 


The  Black  Velvet  Cap 

faded  splendours,  wondering  whether  it  was  as  solid  as  it 
seemed.  My  arm  was  confoundedly  painful,  but  not  so 
painful  as  the  thought  which  suddenly  discoloured  my  san- 
guine expectations.  If  Coadic  had  come  to  my  room  to  re- 
move the  gems,  was  it  likely  that  he  had  left  them  behind 
after  choking  me  into  unconsciousness?  Without  doubt 
they  were  lying  in  the  same  place  where  they  had  been  con- 
cealed before — some  hole  in  a  wall  or  a  tree  for  which,  lack- 
ing a  definite  clue,  one  might  search  vainly  for  twenty 
years ! 

I  tapped  the  posts  of  the  bed.  They  were  solid  as  the 
walls  of  the  room.  I  found  cobwebs  between  the  top  and 
the  ceiling.  Finally,  with  my  head  and  arm  throbbing,  I 
crawled  back  between  the  sheets. 

Gaston  came  in  early,  solicitous  about  my  welfare,  pro- 
foundly regretful  that  my  arm  had  kept  me  awake. 

"Your  confounded  gems  kept  me  awake,"  I  replied.  "I 
suppose  you  don't  know  where  your  uncle  hid  them?" 

''Certainly;  in  the  coffer  which  we  found  in  the  well.  I 
showed  it  to  you." 

"But  where  did  he  keep  the  coffer?" 

"In  his  bed,  poor  man." 

"In  that  bed?" 

"Of  course." 

'Where?    Where?" 

"He  had  a  cunningly  devised  mattress.  That's  what  de- 
ceived the  police,  fipine  was  certain  that  the  thief  had 
heard  of  this  hiding-place,  probably  from  the  mechanic  who 
designed  it,  who,  on  inquiry,  was  found  to  be  a  vaurien." 

"For  Heaven's  sake  show  me  the  place  at  once." 

Gaston  smiled  derisively.  Then  he  turned  back  bolster 
and  sheet,  and  the  mattress  beneath  them.  The  lower  mat- 
tress was  exposed,  lying  like  a  square  box  full  of  springs, 
and  well  padded  on  the  top  with  horse-hair.    Gaston  touched 

85 


Some  Happenings 

a  button,  which  released  a  catch.  Just  where  my  head  had 
lain  there  was  a  cunningly  contrived  hiding-place. 

In  it,  with  not  a  gem  missing,  lay  the  famous  Trevignon 
collection. 

Not  till  a  year  later  did  we  learn  the  truth,  although 
we  divined  much  of  it.  I  was  staying  with  Gaston  and  his 
delightful  wife,  when  Coadic,  long  regarded  as  a  harmless 
imbecile,  met  with  a  serious  accident  in  the  asylum  where 
he  was  confined.  He  fell  down  some  steps  and  was  stunned. 
When  he  recovered  consciousness,  to  the  doctor's  amaze- 
ment it  was  evident  that  he  had  recovered  also  his  memory. 
Before  he  died  he  made  full  confession  to  a  priest,  and  also 
to  the  authorities.  He  did  not  murder  his  master.  He 
knew  that  the  gems  would  be  sold  when  that  master  died, 
and  determined  to  steal  them.  As  I  had  guessed,  he  con- 
cealed himself  in  the  room,  stole  the  gems,  escaped  by  the 
window,  flung  away  the  coffer,  hid  the  gems  in  the  garden, 
and  regained  his  own  room.  It  will  never  be  known  whether 
the  marquis  discovered  the  theft.  He  was  found  dead, 
hence  his  servant's  subsequent  remorse  and  grief.  Coadic 
told  the  priest  that  he  believed  he  had  killed  his  master. 
The  shock  of  finding  his  gems  stolen  had  been  too  sudden 
for  an  old  and  enfeebled  man.  Later,  Coadic  replaced  the 
gems  in  their  original  hiding-place,  to  which,  as  has  been 
said,  he  alone  had  access.  Hence  his  distress  at  my  occu- 
pying the  room.  At  the  last  moment,  it  seems,  he  had  been 
confronted  with  the  possibility  of  Gaston  showing  me  the 
hiding-place.  He  had  gone  to  my  rooms  to  remove  the 
gems,  counting  upon  my  retiring  late  rather  than  early. 
My  step  in  the  stone  corridor  had  driven  him  to  hide  under 
the  bed.  He  heard  me  lock  the  door,  and  knew  that  his 
escape  was  cut  off.  He  also  had  the  satisfaction  of  know- 
ing that  the  gems  were  not  disturbed.  As  soon  as  he  was 
sure  I  was  asleep  he  had  crept  from  under  the  bed,  thereby 
86 


The  Black  Velvet  Cap  ' 

arousing  me.  He  told  the  doctor  that  he  meant  to  escape  by 
the  window,  but  he  was  arrested  by  the  sight  of  the  emerald 
shining  in  the  moonlight.  Then  followed  his  detection  and 
the  struggle.  After  choking  me  into  insensibility  he  escaped 
with  the  gems,  leaving  his  cap  behind  him.  He  retrieved  the 
cap  while  I  was  in  the  bath-room,  and,  hoodwinked  by  my 
declared  intention  of  leaving  the  chateau,  had  replaced  the 
gems. 

''But  how  did  he  get  possession  of  the  skull-cap?"  asked 
Mme.  de  Trevignon. 

"I  gave  him  what  was  left  of  my  uncle's  wardrobe — not 
much." 

Madame  glanced  at  my  emerald  ring,  which  I  had  pre- 
sented to  her  on  her  marriage. 

"If  it  hadn't  been  for  this,"  she  murmured,  "I  shouldn't 
be  sitting  here." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Gaston.  "My  one-man 
exhibition  in  London  would  have  made  me  famous  perhaps, 
and — rich." 

"Of  course  it  would,"  said  the  wise  wife. 

And,  between  ourselves,  the  good  fellow  is  assured  that 
the  finding  of  the  gems  wrecked  his  artistic  career.  He 
never  touches  a  brush  now,  and  next  year  I  have  promised 
to  paint  the  portrait  of  his  son  and  heir — a  handsome  urchin 
of  five. 


87 


VI 


MESSITER  S    SISTER 


MISS  MESSITER  wishes  to  see  you,  sir." 
''Miss— Messiter?" 

"The  sister  of  the  late  Mr.  John  Messiter,  sir.  She  asked 
me  to  mention  that." 

"Oh!     Show  Miss  Messiter  in." 

"Yes,  sir." 

The  office  boy  vanished.  Adrian  Steele  stared  at  the  ceil- 
ing. In  his  mind's  eye  was  John  Messiter,  that  queer  youth 
whose  wares  he,  as  literary  purveyor,  had  offered  to  the 
British  public.  In  more  senses  than  one  young  Messiter 
had  proved  an  unknown  quantity.  And  now  his  sister  was 
coming  upstairs  to  ask,  perhaps,  for  money,  or  help  of  some 
sort.    Adrian  wondered  what  Messiter's  sister  would  be  like. 

When  he  looked  down  she  was  standing  before  him.  So 
quietly  had  she  entered,  that  he  was  unaware  how  long  she 
had  stood  in  front  of  his  desk.  He  rose,  offering  a  chair  and 
an  apology. 

"I  beg  your  pardon  for  startling  you,"  she  said. 

He  flushed  slightly,  for  she  had  startled  him — an  experi- 
ence so  novel  as  to  be  embarrassing.  He  withdrew  his  eyes 
from  a  face  which  remained  vividly  impressed  upon  his 
mind.  As  he  had  expected,  Messiter's  sister  was  no  common 
type.  She  presented  the  always  remarkable  contrast  of  soft 
light  hair  surmounting  dark  eyes  and  brows  and  lashes.  Ad- 
88 


Messiter's  Sister 

rian  often  boasted  that  he  could  read  faces,  but  this  face  was 
undecipherable.  One  might  hazard  a  guess  that  the  owner 
of  it  had  suffered  either  in  mind  or  body,  possibly  in  both. 
Serenity  informed  the  mouth ;  the  voice  had  soothing  inflec- 
tions; no  trepidation  betrayed  the  suppliant.  At  the  same 
time,  Messiter's  sister  wore  shabby  clothes,  although  they 
became  her  vastly  well.  Her  gloves  were  darned;  her  veil 
had  been  carefully  mended;  her  hat  could  not  have  cost 
more  than  a  few  shillings. 

''What  can  I  do  for  you?"  said  Adrian. 

"I  have  brought  a  manuscript." 

"Of  your  own?"  Unconsciously  he  assumed  the  edi- 
torial tone. 

"Of  my  brother's." 

"I  should  like  to  see  it  very  much.  Your  brother,  Miss 
Messiter,  did  good  work;  it  had  quality.  Had  he  lived,  he 
would  have  made  an  enduring  mark." 

She  bowed  quietly,  holding  out  the  manuscript,  which  Ad- 
rian took.  Then,  with  a  certain  hesitation  alien  to  him,  he 
said: 

"Have  you  offered  this  elsewhere?" 

"No  ;  he  wished  me  to  offer  it  to  you  first." 

"But — pray  pardon  me ! — Mr.  Messiter  died  more  than 
six  months  ago,  and " 

"I  could  not  bring  it  before." 

Adrian  turned  over  the  first  page.  The  title  of  the 
manuscript,  a  short  story,  arrested  his  attention.  Mes- 
siter had  the  knack  of  finding  arresting  titles.  He  turned 
another  page.  Yes,  yes ;  this  was  a  piece  of  Messiter's  work 
— he  recognised  the  brand  immediately. 

"I'm  sure  to  want  this,"  he  said  pleasantly. 

"And  in  view  of  the  fact  that  this  is  your  brother's  last 
piece  of  work " 

89 


Some  Happenings 

"There  may  be  more,"  said  Miss  Messiter,  displaying  foi 
the  first  time  an  unmistakable  nervousness. 

*Tndeed!  You  have  come  upon  a  bundle  of  manuscripts 
— eh?  I  hope  you  will  give  us  the  first  refusal  of  all  of 
them."  Again  his  tone  became  professional.  "Would  you 
let  me  see  everything?  I'm  not  prepared  to  say  now  what 
terms  we  could  offer,  but  if  you  will  trust  me " 

"John  said  I  could  trust  you." 

Adrian's  keen  eyes  softened. 

"I'll  read  this  at  once,  and  write  to  you.  Will  you  send 
me  the  others?" 

"I'll  bring  them — later.  Could  you — would  you" — ^her 
voice  for  the  first  time  quavered — "p — p — pay  for  this  on 
acceptance?    It's  not  customary,  I  know,  but " 

"You  shall  have  a  cheque  to-morrow  if  it  proves  avail- 
able.   It  is  almost  sure  to  prove  available." 

Miss  Messiter  gave  an  address  in  Bloomsbury,  and  then 
took  her  leave.  Adrian  had  a  thousand  matters  clamouring 
for  attention,  but  he  fell  into  a  reverie,  staring  at  the  manu- 
script on  his  desk.  Presently  he  picked  it  up  and  read  it 
through  with  ever-increasing  interest.  He  told  himself  it 
was  the  best  thing  poor  Messiter  had  done — a  sort  of  swan 
song.  Yet  the  sister  had  spoken  of  others.  He  seized  his 
pen,  filled  in  a  cheque,  and  despatched  it  by  a  special  mes- 
senger. 

"She  might  be  in  distress,"  he  murmured.  "If  Messiter 
knew  that " 

With  an  effort  he  dismissed  from  his  mind  such  specula- 
tion. Men  said  that  Adrian  was  hard-headed ;  hard-hearted 
also,  added  the  women.  Undeniably,  he  had  proved  him- 
self a  shrewd  and  able  editor  of  a  famous  magazine.  Life 
seemed  to  him  a  simple  affair,  because  so  far  he  had  made 
no  serious  mistakes  in  it.  He  had  worked ;  he  made  others 
work.  He  had  educated  a  younger  brother,  who  was  doing 
90 


Messiter's  Sister 

well  at  the  bar.  His  friends  were  workers:  men  with 
definite  aims  and  ambitions,  who  measured  success  with  the 
world's  footrule.  For  the  rest,  he  was  generous,  honour- 
able, fearless,  and  an  uncompromising  enemy  of  humbug. 

During  the  next  twenty-four  hours  his  thoughts  turned 
with  exasperating  frequency  to  Messiter  and  Messiter's 
sister.  He  was  sensible  of  an  inordinate  curiosity.  He  had 
talked  with  Messiter  several  times  without  getting  below 
the  surface.  The  man  whom  he  had  wished  to  know  more 
intimately  revealed  himself  in  his  work  as  an  Idealist.  His 
stories,  for  instance,  as  Adrian  had  pointed  out  in  a  short 
obituary  notice,  were  distinguished  by  an  aerial  delicacy 
of  tint  and  texture.  Messiter  soared — that  was  the  word — 
into  an  empyrean  beyond  the  clouds.  Adrian  had  never  left 
the  solid  earth. 

Miss  Messiter  acknowledged  the  receipt  of  the  cheque,  but 
she  made  no  mention  of  her  brother's  other  manuscripts — 
an  omission  which  Adrian  resented.  When  the  proof  was 
sent  to  her,  the  editor  asked  for  an  interview;  the  proof, 
carefully  revised,  reached  him  next  day  in  an  envelope 
which  contained  nothing  else.  Adrian  told  himself  that  he 
felt  "cheap."  None  the  less,  in  the  interests  of  his  maga- 
zine, he  must  try  to  secure  Messiter's  unpublished  stuff.  He 
called  upon  the  sister  at  the  address  she  gave  him.  Miss 
Messiter,  as  a  slattern  of  a  servant  informed  him,  was 
*'not  at  home."  The  hussy  had  her  tongue  in  her  cheek  and 
an  insolent  grin  on  her  face.  Adrian  walked  away  thor- 
oughly out  of  temper,  because  hitherto  he  had  run  on  no 
fool's  errands. 

The  stoi-y,  when  published,  challenged  controversy.  A 
famous  divine  wrote  to  The  Times.  A  man  of  science  an- 
swered his  letter ;  other  letters  followed.  But,  inevitably,  in- 
terest in  Messiter  and  in  Messiter's  ideas  waned  and 
vanished. 

91 


Some  Happenings 

Six  months  passed.  And  then,  one  afternoon,  Messiter's 
sister  called  again  at  the  office.  Adrian  greeted  her  coldly. 
Indeed,  he  told  himself  that  only  a  strong  sense  of  duty  to 
his  employer  justified  him  in  seeing  a  woman  who  had  treated 
him  so  cavalierly.  Her  appearance,  however,  thawed  re- 
sentment. The  poor  lady  looked  thin  and  ill;  the  lines  on 
her  face  had  perceptibly  deepened. 

''Why  did  you  not  come  before?"  said  Adrian. 

"1  had  nothing  to  bring,"  she  faltered. 

As  Adrian  was  staring  at  her,  she  held  out  another  man- 
uscript about  the  same  size  as  the  first.  Adrian  took  it  with 
a  smile,  curiously  compounded  of  derision,  amusement,  and 
sympathy. 

'They  kept  it  six  months,  did  they— and  then  returned 

it?" 

Miss  Messiter  raised  a  pair  of  large,  perplexed  eyes  to 

his. 

''Who  kept  it?"  she  demanded. 

"Confess,"  he  said  lightly,  "that  you  sent  this  to  some 
other  editor.  I  dare  say  you  thought  our  cheque  was  not 
quite  large  enough— eh?  But  it  was  larger  than  any  your 
brother  received  in  his  lifetime " 

"The  cheque  was  for  a  sum  much  larger  than  I  expected," 
she  interrupted.  "I  have  not  sent  this  anywhere.  I  brought 
it  to  you  first." 

Adrian  tried — very  unsuccessfully — to  conceal  his  im- 
patience. 

"My  dear  Miss  Messiter,  I  beg  pardon,  but,  on  my  soul, 
your — your  procrastination  is  no  ha'penny  matter.  You 
must  know  that  your  brother's  work  excited  a  demand  for 
more — a  demand  only  sustained  and  increased  by  supply. 
That  is  the  A  B  C  of  success  in  letters.  Commercially 
speaking,  this  manuscript — which,  mark  you,  I've  not  looked 
at  yet — would  have  been  worth  just  twice  as  much  to  us 

92 


Messiter's  Sister 

four  months  ago.    Be  frank  with  me.    Why  did  you  not  an- 
swer my  notes  ?" 

"I  had  nothing  to  bring,"  she  repeated,  in  the  same  falter- 
ing tone. 

''This  must  have  been  in  your  possession  then  ?" 

She  made  no  answer. 

'*!  regret  that  I  saw  so  little  of  your  brother.    What  I  did 
see  interested  me  profoundly.     He  told  you  to  trust  me. 
Why  do  you  not  do  so  ?" 

"I — I   couldn't.     You  mustn't  ask  me  questions." 

Adrian  bit  his  lip.  The  face  opposite  was  piteous  in  its 
expression  of  entreaty;  and  yet  who  could  doubt  that  this 
woman  needed  a  friend?  Who  could  resist  the  temptation 
to  help  a  creature  so  young,  so  forlorn,  so  unfitted  to  with- 
stand the  buffets  of  the  world  ?  Adrian  walked  to  the  win- 
dow. When  he  turned  his  voice  had  lost  its  authority,  and 
gained,  instead,  a  persuasiveness  infinitely  more  eloquent. 

"I  wish  to  be  your  friend.  Let  me  help  you,  if  I  can.  Tm 
not  blind.    You  are  in  straits.    You  are  alone " 

"What  is  it  you  wish  to  know  ?"  she  asked. 

"That  is  better.  We  are  beginning  to  understand  each 
other.  What  do  I  want  to  know  ?  Well,  to  begin  with,  the 
truth  concerning  these  mysterious  manuscripts.  That  last 
one,  for  instance — when  was  it  written?" 

Adrian  sat  down  again  at  his  desk.  He  leaned  forward  as 
he  spoke,  gazing  straight  into  the  eyes  of  his  visitor. 

"If  I  tell  you  the  truth  you  will  not  believe  it." 

His  glance  became  compassionate,  magnanimous,  intensely 
sympathetic.  Amongst  what  manner  of  people  had  she  lived 
of  late  that  she  should  thus  answer  him? 

"I  ask  you  to  trust  me.  Miss  Messiter.  You  must  feel 
that  I  trust  you.  I  am  not  putting  these  questions  out  of  idle 
curiosity." 

93 


Some  Happenings 

She  looked  positively  hunted  as  she  replied :  "That  last 
story  was  written  the  day  before  I  brought  it  to  you." 

"Written  out,"  he  corrected.     "But  the  rough  copy " 

"There  was  none." 

"I  beg  pardon " 

"It  was  dictated — communicated,  if  you  prefer  the  word 
— by  my  brother." 

Adrian  stared  at  her,  confounded. 

"Corrimunicated  by  your  brother  John,  who  died  a  year 
ago?" 

"Yes." 

"And  this,"  Adrian  tapped  the  manuscript  beneath  his 
hand,  "was  also,  I  presume,  communicated  by  him  to  you?" 

"Yes ;  the  day  before  yesterday." 

Adrian  withdrew  his  eyes  from  her  face,  which  was  deli- 
cately flushed.  Two  hypotheses  occurred  to  him.  Either 
this  girl  was  crazy,  or  else  she  had  written  the  stories  signed 
John  Messiter  herself.  The  second  seemed  the  likelier  of 
the  two. 

"I'm  going  to  have  my  tea,  Miss  Messiter.  May  I  order 
some  for  you  ?" 

"Thank  you.  You  are  very  kind,"  she  replied.  Then,  as 
he  gave  the  order  through  the  telephone,  she  added  quietly, 
"What  an  amazing  discovery  this  wireless  telegraphy  is !" 

"Yes,"  said  Adrian,  eyeing  her  intently. 

"Telepathy,  too — you  believe  in  that,  Mr.  Steele?" 

"Some  of  the  experiments  recorded  have  been  remark- 
able," he  admitted. 

"But  you  don't  believe  what  I  told  you  just  now,"  she 
said  softly,  meeting  his  somewhat  confused  glance  with  a 
smile.  Adrian  found  himself  trying  to  analyse  the  smile. 
Was  it  wistful,  derisive,  sad,  or  superior? 

"If  you  would  tell  me  a  little  more.    Come — begin  at  the 

94 


Messiter's  Sister 

beginning.    Did  you  live  with  your  brother?    Did  you  share 
his  ambitions?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  quietly.  "We  were  twins,  orphans,  and 
everything  to  each  other." 

Adrian  stared  at  the  pattern  of  the  office  carpet,  because 
tears  lay  in  the  eyes  of  Messiter's  sister.  Sensible  that  she 
was  struggling  with  a  desire  to  speak,  to  give  her  sorrow 
words,  he  found  himself  strenuously  willing  that  she  should 
speak  fully,  without  any  reserve  to  him.  a  stranger.  More ; 
he  had  a  conviction  that  her  hesitation,  her  modesty,  her 
sensibility,  were  thrall  to  his  will,  that  in  an  inexplicable 
fashion  the  barriers  that  must  exist  between  them  were 
crumbling.  When  she  spoke  again  her  voice  had  changed. 
It  had  become  the  voice  of'  an  automaton :  articulate,  but 
cold,  measured,  lacking  in  inflection  and  modulation.  It 
seemed  as  if  it  came  from  an  immeasurable  distance,  sub- 
limated, as  it  were,  by  vast  spaces.  He  shivered  slightly, 
glancing  at  the  window,  wondering  whether  a  draught  had 
chilled  him. 

"His  ambitions  were  never  realised,"  she  continued.  "He 
touched  the  fringe  of  them  just  before  he  died.  And  he 
knew  that  if  his  strength,  his  poor  frail  body,  had  not  failed, 
he  would  have  held  what  he  desired  so  vehemently  in  the 
hollow  of  his  hand.  At  the  last,  it  was  terrible :  the  struggle, 
the  hopeless  struggle,  to  live  a  little  longer,  a  few  months, 
so  that  he  might  taste — success " 

Adrian  was  about  to  entreat  her  to  say  no  more.  The 
contrast  between  the  matter  and  manner  of  her  speech  had 
an  edge  so  sharp  that  he  felt  his  own  tissues — tough  enough, 
to  be  sure — to  be  lacerated.  She  went  on,  in  the  same  dull 
monotone : 

"The  night  before  he  died  we  were  alone.  And  then — 
and  then — "    Her  voice  died  away  in  a  fluttering  sigh. 

95 


Some  Happenings 

*'Yes,  yes."  Adrian  bent  forward  and  took  her  hand.  It 
was  cold,  limp,  and  transparently  thin. 

"He  said  that  he  would  try  to — to  come  back.  And  he 
did." 

Adrian  was  conscious  of  a  shock.  Her  hand  fell  from 
his  warm  clasp,  and  with  it  much  of  his  sympathy  and  re- 
spect. Reason  revolted  against  what  was  incredible.  And 
yet — and  yet — her  face  diffused  truth. 

"You  saw  him?" 

"No;  I  heard  him." 

Adrian  read  the  terror  in  her  dilated  eye.  "It  happened 
months  after  he  was  buried.  I  had  brought  myself  to  look 
over  his  papers.  I  was  reading  an  unfinished  manuscript.  I 
cried  because  it  was  unfinished,  because  he  had  tried  so  hard 
to  finish  it.  Oh,  it  all  came  back,  that  last  scene — his  poor 
face,  his  thin  fingers  clutching  the  pencil,  and  then  the — 
end !  Oh !  I  hated,  hated,  his  work,  because  it  killed  him. 
.  .  .  And  yet  I  loved  it,  you  understand,  because  it  was 
his — his,  not  a  part  of  him,  but  all  of  him.  Just  as  I  came 
to  the  last  illegible  line,  I  heard  his  voice  in  my  ear." 

"Go  on,"  commanded  Adrian.  He  spoke  with  a  vehe- 
mence that  he  knew  to  be  brutal ;  but  for  the  moment  she, 
the  frail  woman,  had  swept  him  off  his  feet,  whirled  him 
into  a  maelstrom  of  emotion,  passion — aye,  and  fear.  The 
dead  man's  voice — he  could  remember  it  well — thrilled  and 
vibrated  in  his  own  ears. 

"I  was  sitting  by  an  open  window,  and  the  voice  came 
from  outside,  whispering  my  name,  'Christine — Christine!' 
And  I  answered,  'Yes,  John,'  almost  without  thinking.  And 
then  he  told  me  to  get  a  pen  and  write  down  what  he  was 
about  to  say.  He  finished  the  story  which— which  I  brought 
to  you  next  day." 

"The  story  I  bought  and  printed?"  said  Adrian. 

"Yes.    I  like  to  think,  now,  that  he  was  permitted  to  help 

96 


Messiter's  Sister 

me,  you  understand,  that  it  was  not  done  for  any  selfish  mo- 
tive. I  had  come  to  the  end  of  my  resources.  But  I  cannot 
deny  that  I  was  terrified.    It  made  me  ill — very  ill." 

"And  this  ?"    Adrian  touched  the  second  manuscript. 

"1  had  spent  the  cheque  you  sent  me.  And  he  came 
again.  I  had  prayed  that  he  would  come.  Was  it  wicked  ? 
Perhaps  we  are  not  meant  to  grasp  what  lies  beyond.  When 
I  prayed,  I  had  the  feeling  that  I  was — how  shall  I  put  it? 
— tampering  with — with  a  power  that  might  kill  me.  If  I 
had  not  been — in  want " 

*'In  want?    And  a  hint  to  me " 

She  silenced  him  with  a  gesture  so  delicate,  so  eloquent 
of  pride,  gratitude,  and  shame,  that  Adrian's  cheeks  flamed. 

"He  came,"  she  continued.  "And  he  dictated  what  I  have 
brought  you  to-day.    That  is  all." 

Adrian  jumped  up.  Crossing  the  room,  he  flung  the  win- 
dow wide  open.  The  cool  air  flooded  his  brain.  At  the  same 
moment  the  oflice  boy  appeared  with  the  tea.  This  anti- 
climax of  an  interruption  restored  to  Adrian  self-possession 
and  self-confidence.  He  asked  his  visitor  to  pour  out  tea 
with  an  air  and  accent  that  proclaimed  the  superior  animal, 
securely  enthroned  above  the  weakness  and  credulity  of  the 
other  sex.  He  began  to  talk  of  current  topics.  Messiter's 
sister  drank  her  tea,  listening  to  his  well-turned  phrases.  A 
faint  colour  sparkled  in  her  cheeks ;  she  smiled  at  his  quips ; 
she  seemed  to  wish  to  exhibit  herself  as  the  agreeable,  con- 
ventional woman,  pleasing  without  effort  and  easy  to  please. 
Presently  she  rose,  drawing  on  a  pair  of  carefully  darned 
gloves.     Instantly  the  situation  became  strained. 

"Must  you  really  go?  I  shall  want  this."  He  indicated 
the  manuscript. 

"It  is — it  is  his,  you  understand." 

"Certainly;  it  is  John  Messiter's,  if  you  say  so."  Her 
eyes  flared. 

97 


Some  Happenings 

*'I  do  say  so — and  you  don't  believe  me." 

He  bit  his  lip.  What  a  brute — what  a  fool  he  was!  Of 
■course,  she  had  written  both  stories,  although  her  brother, 
doubtless,  had  begun  the  first.  Grief  at  his  death,  and 
abominable  penury,  had  unbalanced  a  brain  too  finely  ad- 
justed for  work-a-day  uses. 

''My  dear  Miss  Messiter,  I  beg  your  parden.  I  repeat, 
with  tenfold  emphasis,  what  I  said  half  an  hour  ago.  I 
should  be  proud  to  call  myself  your  friend.  I  shall  esteem  it 
an  honour  to  serve  you — if  I  may." 

''But,"  she  held  his  glance,  "you  don't  believe  me:  you 
think  me  not  mad " 

"Heaven  forbid!" 

"But — unbalanced." 

She  had  used  his  own  word,  reading  his  thoughts  with 
uncanny  subtlety. 

"And,  that  being  so,  I  can  only  say  good-bye,  and  thank 

you." 

Adrian  stammered  out: 

"May  I — you  will  f -forgive  me — but — as  a  f -favour  to 

Tne "    He  retreated  to  his  desk  and  pulled  a  cheque  book 

from  a  pigeon-hole.    "S-s-something  on  account " 

"No.  Well,  then — yes.  I  am  in  debt.  My  landlady  is  a 
good  creature.    But  she,  too,  is  struggling." 

Adrian  filled  in  a  cheque,  thrust  it  into  an  envelope  and 
begged  her  to  say  no  more.  She  took  him  at  his  word, 
bowed,  ignored  his  outstretched  hand,  and  left  the  room. 

"She  is  furious,"  he  muttered,  "because  I  have  seen 
through  her  pathetic  little  enterprise." 

He  sat  down  and  plunged  into  the  manuscript.  Yes,  yes ; 
who  could  doubt  that  this  was  woman's  work?  Why,  the 
delicacy  of  it,  its  fragrance,  its  bloom — ^bloom  was  the  word 
— revealed  the  sex  of  the  writer  in  every  paragraph.     She 

98 


Messiter's  Sister 

was  a  genius — half  crazy,  half  starving,  and  wholly  charm- 
ing; a  creature  of  fascination. 

He  had  hardly  finished  the  story  when  the  door  opened, 
and  in  came  Paxton  Wright,  his  sub-editor,  whom  Adrian  in 
expansive  moments  called  '^friend." 

''Ah,  Wright.  Sit  down.  Something  amazing  has  taken 
place." 

He  was  constrained,  against  his  better  judgment,  to  tell 
this  shrewd,  lynx-eyed  man  what  was  in  his  mind.  Speech 
became  a  necessity.    Wright  curled  a  derisive  lip. 

**A  clear  case  of  obtaining  money  under  false  pretences. 
With  your  experience " 

"You  did  not  see  Miss  Messiter." 

"Yes,  I  did.  A  witch,  no  doubt.  You  are  not  easily  hum- 
bugged." 

"She  is  not  quite "  Adrian  touched  his  forehead  sig- 
nificantly. 

"Pooh !  She's  as  sane  as  I  am.  I  took  particular  notice 
of  her,  because  she  is  unquestionably  pretty:  too  thin,  but 
graceful  as  a  nymph.  She's  laughing  at  you  now,  I'll  be 
bound." 

"H — I  say  if,  Wright — if  her  story  were  true." 

Wright  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Oh !  you  contemplate  a  fake.  From  a  business  point 
of  view  Pm  with  you.    We  can  hoax  half  England." 

Adrian  shuffled  in  the  editorial  chair.  At  times  Wright 
scraped  his  feelings.  Not  often ;  he  was  too  clever  for  that, 
but  now  and  again — and  always  unexpectedly.  Adrian 
asked  himself  the  uncomfortable  question:  "Is  Wright 
quite  straight?" 

"This  magazine  would  never  lend  itself  to  that  sort  of 
thing,"  he  said  stiffly.  "Did  you  want  to  see  me  about  any- 
thing in  particular?" 


99 


Some  Happenings 
II 

Next  day  Adrian  sent  Messiter's  sister  another  cheque, 
the  balance  due,  and  with  it  this  note : 

**My  Dear  Miss  Messiter, — 

''Unwittingly  I  placed  you  and  myself  in  a  false  posi- 
tion. But  please  forgive  me.  For  the  future  I  promise  to 
consider  whatever  you  may  bring  or  send  without  asking 
questions,  which,  after  all,  are  irrelevant.  At  the  same  time, 
can't  we  meet?  I  would  travel  an  ell  to  you.  Won't  you 
come  an  inch  ?" 

To  this  she  replied  by  return  of  post,  acknowledging  the 
cheque  with  thanks.  The  answer  he  awaited  with  almost 
boyish  impatience  was  condensed  into  a  postscript : 

"I  am  a  forgiving  woman.  Because  you  have  placed  me 
in  one  false  position,  I  shall  not  try  to  place  you  in  another." 

Adrian,  it  has  been  said,  had  found  life  simple.  Now, 
without  gradation  of  any  kind,  it  became  complex.  He  had 
tried  to  obey  the  philosopher's  injunction,  but  self-study 
and  self-analysis  had  not  taught  him  knowledge  of  char- 
acter, temperament,  and  opinions  other  than  his  own.  He 
felt  that  he  was  floundering,  if  not  foundering,  in  a  sea  of 
speculation.    Messiter's  sister  obsessed  him. 

He  knew  many  so-called  spiritualists  and  spiritists ;  he  had 
assisted  at  their  disappointing  seances;  he  had  read  their 
pamphlets,  their  manifestoes,  their  affidavits.  And  the 
thoughts,  the  messages,  the  words  twisted  out  of  planchette, 
had  without  exception  proved  trivial,  or  senseless,  or  ilHter- 
ate ;  generally  all  three.  He  recalled  a  message  from  John 
Milton,  an  Alexandrine  faulty  in  quantity,  ill-spelled,  and 

lOO 


Messiter's  Sister 

grotesque  in  sentiment.  A  woman  of  his  acquaintance 
claimed  to  have  constant  intercourse  with  departed  spirits. 
He  did  not  doubt  that  she  was  sincere  in  believing  that  cer- 
tain illustrious  persons  hovered  about  her  even  at  unseason- 
able hours.  She  saw  them,  heard  them,  as  clearly,  let  us  say, 
as  a  delirious  patient  sees  and  hears  the  creatures  of  his 
imagination.  Adrian,  in  compliance  with  this  lady's  request, 
had  put  some  searching  questions.    What,  for  instance,  was 

the  late  Y ,  that  admirable  painter,  doing  in  the  world 

unseen.  "He  is  painting,"  replied  the  lady  solemnly,  ''pic- 
tures more  beautiful  than  any  he  painted  here."  This  an- 
swer was  reasonable  and  satisfying.    ''And  W ?"  Adrian 

named  a  famous  poet.  *'Ah !  he  too  is  at  w^ork.  He  tells  me 
that  he  has  just  finished  a  poem,  in  nine  cantos,  finer  than 
anything  recorded  here."  Adrian  admitted  that  it  would  be 
impossible  to  make  any  critical  estimate  of  pictures  painted 
with  celestial  pigments,  but  he  begged  his  friend  to  procure, 

if  possible,  a  sample  verse  or  two  of  W 's  new  poem. 

Surely  W ,  who  on  earth  had  really  bored  his  friends  by 

constant  recitation  of  his  own  poems,  would  be  willing  to 
oblige  an  honest  seeker  after  truth.  And  if  this  new  poem 
were  finer  than  any  he  had  written  on  earth,  what  a  gospel 
it  w^ould  prove  to  millions !     The  lady  replied  rather  tartly 

that  W was  not  permitted  to  transmit  his  best.    Adrian 

smiled  derisively.  It  is  hard  to  believe  that  the  worthless, 
the  base,  and  the  counterfeit  are  the  only  coins  current  be- 
tween the  quick  and  the  dead ! 

He  published  the  second  story  in  the  next  issue  of  the 
magazine.  It  attracted  more  attention  than  the  first.  The 
elect  became  excited.  Why,  it  was  asked,  had  these  post- 
humous works  been  withheld  so  long  from  publication? 
Were  more  to  be  expected  ?    And  so  forth. 

Meantime,  it  had  become  plain  to  Adrian  that  he  loved 
Messiter's  sister,  with  a  love  differing  from  anything  of  the 

lOI 


Some  Happenings 

kind  experienced  before.  One  measures  adequately  the 
strength  of  this  attachment  by  the  statement  that  this 
shrewd,  cool-headed  man  was  willing  to  marry,  on  her  own 
terms,  a  girl  he  had  met  only  twice.  If  she  imposed  silence, 
he  would  ask  no  questions.  He  wrote  a  letter  entreating 
permission  to  pay  her  his  addresses.  She  sent  one  line  in 
reply : 

*'Not  till  you  can  swear  that  you  believe  what  I  told  you." 

About  four  months  later  she  called  at  the  office  for  the 
third  time.  Adrian  was  so  shocked  at  her  appearance,  the 
attenuation  of  her  features,  the  pallor  of  her  skin,  that  he 
exclaimed  instantly:  ''What  have  you  been  doing?"  She 
displayed  an  irritation  which  he  rightly  attributed  to  physical 
weakness. 

"I  didn't  come  here  to  talk  of  myself." 

"You  have  brought  another  manuscript?"  he  asked,  with 
carefully-studied  courtesy. 

"No." 

"Will  you  sit  down?" 

She  refused  the  chair  he  offered.  Her  large,  clear  eyes 
lingered  on  his  face. 

"You  are  in  trouble,  Mr.  Steele." 

He  betrayed  his  astonishment  by  a  sharp  intake  of  breath 
and  the  too  quick  "How  did  you  know?  I've  not  told  a 
soul." 

"And  it  is  serious — very  serious." 

"Oh !  you  read  minds,  too  ?    Yes,  it  is  very  serious." 

The  look  of  bewilderment  on  his  clean-cut  face  provoked 
a  smile  from  Messiter's  sister — a  smile  which  puzzled  Ad- 
rian more  than  anything  that  had  gone  before,  for  it  was  the 
smile  of  superior  knowledge,  yet  tender,  pitying,  and  mag- 
nanimous. The  smile  provoked  him  to  unconsidered  speech, 
to  almost  brutal  frankness.  That  he,  who  had  grasped  all  he 
w^anted  with  a  sure,  tenacious  clutch,  should  find  this  fragile 

I02 


Messiter's  Sister 

woman  so  elusive,  so  intangible,  became  an  insupportable  ex- 
asperation. His  calm,  authoritative  manner,  his  easy  ges- 
tures, his  courteous  bearing,  were  suddenly  exchanged  for 
a  boyish  petulance  and  roughness. 

''You  try  me  too  high !"  he  exclaimed.  "I  tell  you  that 
you  are  partly  responsible  for  a  misfortune  which  has  over- 
taken me.  I  have  been  obsessed  by  your  mysteries.  I  have 
neglected  my  work.  And  I  must  pay  for  such  neglect.  Well, 
I'll  pay,  if  you'll  own  that  for  some  inscrutable  purpose 
you've  tried  to  make  a  fool  of  me.  You  have  the  satisfac- 
tion of  knowing  that  you  have  succeeded." 

''Oh!"  she  said  faintly. 

At  once  he  felt  ashamed  of  his  outburst.  She  looked  so 
pitifully  small  and  weak. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  said  confusedly.  "I  take  it  back.  I 
don't  beHeve  that  you — you — could  have  deliberately  de- 
ceived me." 

"And  this  misfortune  of  yours?  Will  you  tell  me  what 
it  is?" 

Adrian  nodded.  Her  eyes  seemed  to  diffuse  a  strange 
power  of  perception.  He  went  on  to  say  that  he  was  the 
sole  trustee  for  a  niece,  whose  small  fortune  of  some  ten 
thousand  pounds  he  held  in  trust.  Certain  securities  had 
been  taken  by  him  from  his  bankers  to  look  over  with  a 
view  of  reinvestment.  Adrian  recalled  bringing  the  package 
from  the  bank,  carrying  it  to  his  office,  and  thence  to  his 
chambers.  He  could  swear  that  no  one  save  himself  and  the 
manager  of  the  bank  knew  of  its  removal  from  the  bank's 
strong-room.  And  yet,  within  forty-eight  hours,  some  of 
the  negotiable  securities,  amounting  in  value  to  two  thou- 
sand pounds,  had  been  stolen,  or  at  least  had  mysteriously 
disappeared. 

"I've  turned  my  chambers  and  this  office  upside  down," 

103 


Some  Happenings 

said  Adrian  in  conclusion.  ''Well — I've  been  inconceivably 
careless,  and  I  must  pay  the  penalty." 

**You  mean " 

''That  the  money  must  be  made  good."  He  laughed 
bitterly.  "Luckily  I  have  scraped  together  a  little  more 
than  the  amount  missing.  It  might  have  been  a  little  less. 
Wright  always  told  me  I  was  a  fool  to  save.  If  I  hadn't 
saved,  some  very  awkward  questions  would  have  been 
asked.     But — why  have  I  bothered  you  with  my  troubles?" 

He  stopped,  confused,  remembering  that  she  had  divined 
these  troubles  before  he  had  declared  them.  Then  he  burst 
out:     ''How  did  you  know?" 

She  did  not  answer.  Again  it  struck  him  that  she  was 
horribly  ill.    Her  next  words  arrested  his  attention. 

"If  I  could  help  you !    If  I  had  the  strength " 

"The  strength?" 

"If  I  could  ask— John!" 

It  was  a  supreme  moment  for  both  of  them.  Her 
brother's  name  quivered  from  her  lips,  a  mere  sigh.  Yet  it 
smote  Adrian  with  inconceivable  violence.  He  was  trem- 
bling when  he  said : 

"Have  you  heard  from  John  lately?" 

He  could  not  keep  an  ironical  inflection  out  of  his  voice. 

This  cursed  John,  this  spirit  raised  by  a  weak  woman's 
fancy  to  stand  between  her  and  her  happiness  and  his  hap- 
piness !     She  replied  meekly  : 

"No;   I   did  not   dare.     I   have  not   asked   him,   but  if 

you "     She  faltered,  blushing,  irresolute,  turning  aside 

her  graceful  head. 

"I — I  ask  you  to  ask  him?    Never !" 

His  hatred  of  this  imaginary  brother  was  written  plain 
upon  his  face.    She  understood  instantly. 

"How  hard  you  are !"  she  exclaimed.  "And  how  in- 
104 


Messiter's  Sister 

credulous  of  everything  which  you  can't  see  and  feel  and 
hear !     Good-bye  1" 

Their  hands  met;  he  noticed  how  her  fingers  vibrated  at 
his  touch.  A  voice  within  struggled  for  utterance.  He 
wished  to  say:  ''Christine,  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart  and 
soul.  Be  my  wife!"  The  same  voice  whispered  that  he 
must  speak  now  or  never,  that  it  was  not  yet — too  late. 

They  parted.  After  the  door  had  closed  behind  her,  he 
sprang  forward,  irresolute,  his  features  twisted  by  indeci- 
sion. And  then  the  habit  of  a  life-time  seized  him.  His  face 
grew  imppssive,  his  relaxed  muscles  became  rigid;  he  re- 
turned ponderously  to  his  desk,  once  more  the  obedient 
slave  of  that  tyrant,  his  reason. 

For  some  hours  he  worked  feverishly,  making  up  the  time 
he  had  squandered,  imposing  upon  himself  a  penance  of  un- 
remitting labour,  of  undivided  attention  to  tlie  innumerable 
duties  of  an  editor.  The  pile  of  letters  to  be  answered 
dwindled  to  small  proportions.  He  heard  Wright  leave  the 
office ;  the  boy,  first  to  come  and  last  to  go,  ran  off  whistling. 
Doors  were  slamming  all  over  the  big  building  as  men 
stopped  work  for  the  day.  Soon,  Adrian,  was  sensible  that 
he  and  the  hall  porter  were  left  alone.  Still,  he  wrote  on 
and  on,  trying  to  blot  out  the  pathetic  face  of  Christine 
with  ink. 

And  then  suddenly  his  telephone  bell  rang.  He  picked 
up  the  instrument,  astonished  and  perplexed.  Who  was 
ringing  him  up  at  seven  in  the  evening  ?  And  how  did  they 
know  that  he  was  in  his  office  at  such  an  hour  ? 

''Who  is  it  ?"  he  asked.    'T  am  Adrian  Steele." 

'T  am  Christine  Messiter." 

Adrian  recognised  her  voice  at  once.  The  tone  of  it 
seemed  stronger,  clearer,  more  vital.  Yet  he  asked  arjx- 
iously : 


Some  Happenings 

''Are  you  ill?" 

**I  am  quite  well,"  came  the  reply.  ''You  are  alone.  Will 
you  go  at  once  to  Mr.  Wright's  desk?  In  the  middle  drawer 
you  will  find  a  small  bunch  of  keys.  One  of  them — a 
Bramah  key — unlocks  the  japanned  box  which  you  will  find 
in  the  third  right-hand  drawer.  In  the  japanned  box  are 
the  missing  securities.    Will  you  look  at  once  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Adrian,  confounded;  "but " 

A  faint  voice  murmured:     "Good-bye." 

Adrian  hesitated.  The  obvious  questions — the  how,  and 
why,  and  when — rushed  to  his  lips,  but  never  passed  them. 

"Christine,"  he  said  passionately,  "Christine — are  you 
there  ?" 

"Yes." 

"I  love  you — do  you  hear?  And  I  am  coming  to  you. 
Wait  for  me !   Christine,  do  you  love  me  ?" 

He  strained  his  ears  to  catch  her  reply,  but  it  came  to  him 
so  faintly  that  he  supposed  something  must  have  gone  wrong 
with  the  instrument. 

'T — love — you.     I — shall — wait — for — you." 

And  then — silence ! 

Adrian  shut  up  his  desk,  and  put  on  his  hat  and  overcoat 
before  he  remembered  Christine's  message.  Great  Heaven, 
how  had  such  knowledge  come  to  her?  He  rushed  into 
Wright's  room.  His  desk  was  locked,  but  the  middle  drawer 
happened  to  be  open.  The  small  bunch  of  keys  met  his  eye. 
He  pulled  at  the  third  right-hand  drawer — that,  surely, 
would  be  locked.  No.  By  some  mischance  the  patent  lock 
of  the  fluted  lid,  which  ought  to  have  locked  the  desk  and 
all  drawers  in  it,  had  failed  to  work  properly.  Adrian  saw 
the  japanned  box. 

The  securities  were  there. 

With  a  trembling  hand,  with  a  beating  heart  and  throb- 
bing brain,  he  thrust  them  into  his  pocket,  and  replaced  the 

T06 


Messiter's  Sister 

box  and  bunch  of  keys.  He  had  a  strange  look  of  awe 
upon  his  face  as  he  went  down-stairs. 

Passing  through  the  hall  he  noticed  the  porter  and  a 
couple  of  workmen,  and  paused  to  ask  what  they  were 
doing  at  such  a  late  hour.  The  porter's  answer  was  the 
keystone  to  the  arch  of  mystery  through  which  he  felt  him- 
self to  be  crawling.  The  telephone,  he  was  told,  needed  ad- 
justing.   The  job,  however,  was  nearly  done. 

"Is  it  disconnected  now?"  Adrian  asked. 

"Yes,  sir,  and  has  been  since  six.  You  needn't  worry, 
Mr.  Steele;  it  will  be  in  good  order  before  business  hours 
to-morrov/." 

Adrian  rushed  up  the  street  and  into  the  Strand,  whence 
a  hansom  bore  him  swiftly  to  Bloomsbury. 

The  landlady — not  the  slattern  he  remembered  so  well — 
opened  the  door. 

"Where  is  Miss  Messiter?  She  telephoned  to  me — not 
half  an  hour  ago." 

He  was  pushing  by,  when  she  clutched  at  his  sleeve. 
Something  in  her  stupid,  kind  face  arrested  him. 

"We've  no  telephone  in  the  'ouse,  sir.  Miss  Messiter  come 
'ome  about  four.  I  took  her  a  cup  of  tea.  I'm  sure  she's 
not  gone  out  again ;  she's  in  the  second  floor  front.'* 

Adrian  was  half-way  up  the  stairs  before  she  finished 
her  sentence.  He  knocked  at  Christine's  door,  inclining  his 
head  to  hear  her  quiet :  "Come  in."  There  was  no  answer. 
The  landlady,  breathing  very  heavily,  joined  him,  and 
opened  the  door.  By  the  light  of  a  reading  lamp  Adrian 
could  see  Christine  lying  back  in  her  chair,  asleep  and 
smiling  in  her  sleep.  The  landlady  and  he  approached 
silently.  The  landlady  touched  the  hand  which  lay  upon  the 
arm  of  the  chair.    Then  she  screamed  out : 

"O  my  God !    She's  not  asleep.    She's — she's  dead !" 


107 


VII 

THE  SUPREME  EVENT 


TOHN  learned  the  terrifying  truth  after  his  engagement. 
•^  Indeed,  the  young  lady  kept  it  as  a  surprise.  Man  and 
maid  met  at  Miirren  during  a  wet  week.  Each  was  rea- 
sonably keen  about  skating,  and  each  played  piquet.  They 
fell  in  love  at  first  sight,  and  the  affair  ran  smoothly  and 
swiftly  up  to  a  certain  moment. 

They  were  sitting  together,  and  quite  alone.  Mabel  put 
her  pretty  lips  close  to  his  ear  and  whispered : 

"I  have  something  to  tell  you." 

Armitage  smiled.  Foolish  man !  He  was  presumptuous 
enough  to  believe  that  the  something  had  been  told  before, 
and  would  be  told  again  and  again  with  cumulative  sweet- 
ness. 

"Yes,  Mabr 

"I  am  the  Miss  Simpson!" 

The  accent  upon  the  definite  article  was  startlingly  em- 
phatic. No  man — least  of  all  a  lover — could  doubt  that 
this  information,  so  carefully  suppressed,  was  of  tremen- 
dous importance  to  the  speaker.  Happily,  John  was  a  man 
of  sensibility  and  tact.  Instantly  he  dissembled,  for  it  was 
quite  unthinkable  that  he  should  reply : 

"My  darling,  never,  never  have  I  heard  of  the  Miss  Simp- 
son." 

Afterwards  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  truth  be- 
io8 


The  Supreme  Event 

tween  lovers,  however  stark  it  may  appear,  should  prevail. 
Such  wisdom  comes  to  most  men  and  nearly  all  women  too 
late.    John  pressed  her  hand  which  happened  to  lie  in  his. 

"The  Miss  Simpson?"  he  repeated.  There  was  an  accent 
of  awe  in  his  voice. 

"Yes,"  she  murmured.  ''Dearest,  do  you  mind  marrying 
a  celebrity?" 

A  celebrity !  His  blood  curdled.  He  racked  his  unhappy 
brains.  Why  had  he  never  heard  of  the  Miss  Simpson? 
He  divined,  poor  wretch !  that  anything  even  approximating 
to  an  admission  of  such  ignorance  would  cost  him  dear. 
Desperately,  clutching  at  shadows  of  all  celebrities,  he 
murmured  as  sweetly  as  she : 

"Mind  marrying — you!  But,  why  have  you  kept  this 
from  me  ?" 

Her  answer  was  even  more  perplexing  than  what  had 
gone  before. 

"You  see,  John,  we  decided,  mother  and  I,  when  we 
chose  Miirren,  that  it  would  be  wiser,  less  boring,  if  I  came 
here  incognita.  Simpson,  fortunately,  is  a  common  name. 
And  we  agreed  not  to  talk  shop,  my  shop.  I  have  never 
talked  shop  to  you,  for  instance,  have  I  ?" 

"Not  that  I  can  remember." 

She  laughed  delightfully,  showing  her  pretty  teeth  and 
an  enchanting  pair  of  dimples.  John  kissed  her  to  hide  his 
confusion  and  distress.  At  this  moment  the  gods  took  pity 
on  him.  Mrs.  Simpson  entered  the  small  salon  in  which 
they  sat.    Mabel  jumped  up. 

"Mumsie,  I  have  just  told  him." 

John  pulled  himself  together  for  a  supreme  effort.  He 
was  no  actor,  but  he  felt  at  this  moment  histrionic  powers 
within. 

"I  am  the  proudest  man  on  earth,"  he  affirmed. 

A  minute  later  he  escaped.    Wiping  the  perspiration  from 

109 


Some  Happenings 

his  brow,  he  sought  out  his  friend,  who  had  already  prom- 
ised to  officiate  as  best  man. 

"Henry,"  he  gasped.  "I  have  some  rather  important 
news  for  you.  I  am  about  to  lead  to  the  altar  the  Miss 
Simpson!'' 

Henry's  face  became  absolutely  blank. 

^'The  Miss  Simpson?"  he  repeated. 

"Surely,  my  dear  fellow,  you  must  have  heard  of  the 
Miss  Simpson.    Mabel  is  a  celebrity." 

"Is  she  ?  Forgive  me,  old  man,  I  don't  want  to  hurt  your 
feelings,  but,  honestly,  I  have  never  heard  of  the  Miss 
Simpson." 

"Nor  have  I,"  said  John  miserably. 

Then  they  both  laughed. 

John  explained.  It  was  vital,  of  course,  that  he  should 
find  out  at  once  everything  that  was  to  be  known  about  the 
celebrity,  but — how?    How? 

"Leave  that  to  me,"  said  the  kindly  Henry. 

"Hold  hard!  Let's  talk  this  over.  In  what  line  could 
Mab  be  a  celebrity?" 

Henry  hazarded  a  wild  guess. 

"Novelist?" 

John  shook  his  head. 

"Impossible.     I  know  'em  all  by  name." 

"Actress?" 

"Try  again.  Between  us  we  may  arrive  at  something.  I 
know  the  names  of  actresses,  singers,  pianists,  fiddlers, 
painters,  and  sculptors.  We  have  this  clue,  old  man:  she 
has  not  talked  shop  to  me.  Now — wait!  We've  talked 
over  all  the  winter  sports,  and  she  doesn't  shine  at  any  of 
them.  We've  discussed  books,  pictures,  and  plays.  And 
music." 

"Be  perfectly  calm,  John.     I've  got  it." 

"Speak,  or  for  ever  hold  your  peace !" 
no 


The  Supreme  Event 

"I'll  bet  you  she's  a  suffragette.  Cat  and  mouse — eh? 
Escaped  from  starvation — what?" 

''Mab  doesn't  look  like  that.  Suffragette — no!  Suf- 
fragist, well,  it's  just  possible." 

"I'll  ask  Dalton ;  he  knows  everything.  He's  playing  auc- 
tion in  the  next  room.     You  sit  tight  till  I  come  back." 

John  smoked  four  cigarettes  before  Henry  returned. 
One  glance  at  his  friend's  honest  face  was  reassuring.  He 
knew,  and  the  knowledge  had  not  distressed  him. 

**It's  all  right.  Dalton  is  a  wonder.  Miss  Simpson  is  a 
famous  tennis  player.  She  got  into  the  semi-finals  at  Wim- 
bledon last  July,  Dalton  says  she  will  be  champion  of  the 
world  one  day." 

*'Lady  champion  ?    How  awful !" 

"Might  be  worse,"  said  Henry  cheerfully.  "She  might 
have  been  a  lady  doctor,  or  a  lady  whistler." 

"I  hate  lawn-tennis." 

"So  do  I,  but  it's  a  nice,  clean,  healthy  game,  although 
ruinous  to  the  complexion — in  time." 

They  stared  at  each  other  with  lack-lustre  eyes.  Then 
Henry  poured  balm  upon  his  friend's  lacerated  tissues. 

"Let's  face  this  like  men  of  the  world.  You  are  engaged 
to  be  married  to  a  really  charming  girl.  She's  as  fit  as  a 
fiddle  and  hard  as  nails.  You  have  a  lot  in  common.  The 
thing  is  just  right,  barring  this  tennis,  but  fortunately  you 
have  no  profession  and  an  ample  income." 

"I  don't  quite  take  you,  Henry?" 

"I  mean  this.  You  can  trot  about  with  her  to  tourna- 
ments, and  look  after  her.' 

"Pick  up  the  balls?"  Deep  despair  thrilled  his  pleasant 
voice. 

"Cheer  up!  I  repeat,  you  can  afford  in  every  sense  of 
the  word  to  humour  Mabel  for  a  few  months,  to  let  her 

play  her  own  game  in  her  own  superlative  way.    Then " 

III 


Some  Happenings 

"Please  go  on." 

"As  your  best  man  I  suppose  that  I  have  a  claim  to  of- 
ficiate later  on,  as  godfather.  Now,  motherhood  and  lawn- 
tennis  championships  don't  trot  in  the  same  class.    See?" 

"I  see.  Yes ;  there's  something  in  that,  but  it's  a  delicate 
subject,  Henry,  one  that  I  can't  discuss,  even  with  you." 

"Right !  But  the  odds  now  are  against  her  winning  cham- 
pionships.   Wait  and  see  1" 


II 

John  waited  patiently. 

His  charming  Mabel  began  to  talk  shop. 

So  did  her  mother,  who  was  not  quite  so  charming. 

The  trio  left  Murren  and  travelled  together  to  the  Riviera, 
where  John  was  introduced  to  other  tennis-playing  celeb- 
rities— Porson,  the  Irish  champion;  Macmurdo,  the  Ameri- 
can smasher;  Bott,  and  the  mighty  Windlesham.  He  ac- 
quired the  patter  of  his  future  wife's  profession;  and  he  sat 
beside  Mrs.  Simpson,  hour  after  hour,  watching  his  Mabel, 
attired  in  virgin  white,  as  she  drove  ball  after  ball  down  the 
side  lines. 

The  "nuts"  called  her  Venus  Victrix ! 

They  were  married  at  the  end  of  April.  Mrs.  Simpson 
confessed  that  she  was  apprehensive  about  May  weddings. 
John  possessed  an  ancient  Tudor  manor-house  in  Dorset, 
with  a  sunk  garden  which  was  the  joy  of  his  heart,  but  there 
was  no  tennis  lawn.  A  court  was  constructed,  what  is  tech- 
nically called  an  en  tout  cos,  and  a  wall  covered  with  con- 
crete rose  behind  the  stables.  No  less  a  person  than  Bott 
superintended  these  important  improvements.  He  had  en- 
tered with  Mabel  for  the  Mixed  Doubles  at  Wimbledon  and 
elsewhere,  and  he  told  John  that  he  regarded  his  playing 
partner  as  the  coming  woman. 

112 


The  Supreme  Event 

John  submitted  meekly  that  Mabel  had  already  "ar- 
rived." 

"She  will  win  the  All  Comers',"  said  Bott  fervently. 
"Think  of  what  she  has  won  already!"  He  had  black  hair, 
a  yellow  face,  and  the  profile  of  a  chimpanzee,  but  John 
liked  him,  because  the  fellow  was  so  keen,  such  an  uphill 
player,  so  cheery  when  off  his  game. 

Poor  John  nodded  gloomily.  He  had  inherited  some  very 
beautiful  silver — porringers,  salvers,  tankards,  and  the  like 
. — which  gleamed  with  mellow  splendour  upon  a  Queen  Anne 
•dresser  in  the  dining-room.  Mrs.  Simpson  had  praised 
the  dresser. 

"It's  rather  nice,"  John  admitted  modestly. 

"But,  John,  dear,  how  splendid  Mabel's  pots  will  look  on 
it!" 

Mabel's  pots!  There  were  dozens  of  them,  culled  from 
every  silversmith  in  the  metropolitan  area. 

"Some  people,"  continued  Mrs.  Simpson  severely,  "sell 
their  pots  and  their  jewellery.  Dear  Mab  has  never  de- 
graded herself  by  doing  that.    Take  Tom  Slagg " 

"If  you'll  excuse  me,  I'd  rather  not,"  murmured  John. 
"Enough  is  as  good  as  a  feast." 

"Tom  Slagg  sells  everything.  He  keeps  a  sort  of  jewel- 
ler's shop.  I  call  him  a  'pro.'  I  am  so  proud  of  Mabel's 
trophies  1" 

They  were  spread  upon  that  ancient  dresser.  They 
remained  there.  The  eyes  of  dead-and-gone  Armiitages 
glared  down  upon  silver  and  silver-gilt  with  ever-deepen- 
ing reproach  and  derision.  John  was  sensible  of  their  dis- 
approval. He  shared  it,  but  what  could  he  say?  What 
could  he  do  ?  He  did  the  one  thing  possible  and  decent.  He 
locked  up  the  tankards  and  porringers. 

It  was  Bott  who  suggested  the  propriety  of  inviting  Win- 
dlesham  and  Mrs.  Pragson  to  spend  three  weeks  in  Dorset. 

113 


Some  Happenings 

*'I  must  practise  with  Mabel,'*  he  said.  "You  know 
Windlesham ;  and  Mrs.  Pragson  is  a  corker.  Forty-five — 
I  give  you  my  word — and  still  the  most  formidable  woman 
in  England — ^bar  two." 

John  would  have  barred  them  all  except  Mabel,  but 
he  said  not  a  word. 

Mrs.  Pragson  arrived  with  many  racquets.  She  was 
short,  squat,  black-avised,  with  a  complexion  that  matched 
the  Queen  Anne  dresser.  Windlesham  accompanied  her, 
the  ex-champion  of  the  world.  Photographs  of  the  new 
court  and  the  old  players  appeared  in  half-a-dozen  papers. 
John  read  many  paragraphs  as  follows : 

"Armitage  Court  is  now  the  centre  of  the  liveliest  inter- 
est. The  ancient  manor  has  never,  if  we  may  say  so, 
sheltered  at  one  time  so  many  distinguished  persons." 

In  the  solitude  of  his  own  den  John  said : 

^'Confound  it!" 


Ill 


The  gallant  fellow  tried  to  play  the  game  under  his 
wife's  tutelage.  He  practised  assiduously  against  the  back- 
wall  ;  he  studied  tactics.  In  a  single  Mabel  could  give  him 
fifteen  and  owe  forty!  She  liked  to  play  with  him,  but 
Windlesham  sternly  forbade  such  altruism.  John  agreed. 
Nothing  must  imperil  Mabel's  chances  for  the  championship. 

Occasionally  he  strayed  into  the  nurseries  and  glanced  at 
his  old  toys.  He  busied  himself  with  the  management  of  his 
small  estate,  and  attended  parochial  and  county  councils. 
His  brother  magistrates  welcomed  him  on  the  bench. 

During  the  pleasant  weeks  which  preceded  the  Great 
Event  John  made  only  one  blunder.  In  a  reactionary  mo- 
ment he  invited  Toomer  to  spend  a  week-end  with  the  celeb- 
rities. Toomer  had  been  John's  school-fellow  and  con- 
114 


The  Supreme  Event 

temporary  at  Winchester,  and  afterwards  the  two  men  had 
been  fellow-undergraduates  at  New.  If  Etonians,  as  a  rule, 
are  pleasure-loving,  while  Harrovians  are  strenuous,  so  also, 
without  offence,  one  may  describe  Wykehamists  as  philo- 
sophical. John  was  a  fair  type  of  Wykeham's  sons.  He  had 
easy  manners,  much  general  knowledge,  a  sense  of  humour, 
and  a  disposition  to  travel  agreeably  along  the  lines  of  least 
resistance. 

Toomer  was  his  antithesis.  Toomer  won  scholarships. 
Toomer  took  a  high  degree.  By  this  time  he  was  well 
known  as  a  capable  and  rising  man  of  letters,  but  admittedly 
a  crank. 

Toomer  loathed  what  he  called  ball-games.  That,  pos- 
sibly, may  have  been  in  John's  mind  when  he  invited  him  to 
Armitage  Court.  Had  John  been  more  candid,  Toomer 
might  have  dechned  the  invitation. 

Driving  up  from  the  station,  which  was  a  comfortable 
four  miles  away,  John  said  carelessly: 

"By  the  way,  the  house  is  chock-a-block  with  tennis 
sharps." 

**Tennis  sharps!"  repeated  Toomer. 

"Bott,  Mrs.  Pragson,  Windlesham." 

"Never  heard  of  'em,"  said  Toomer. 

To  John's  immense  surprise,  he  felt  a  certain  irritation. 

*'You  must  have  heard  of  Windlesham.  Hang  it!  He 
was  open  lawn-tennis  champion  for  three  or  four  years  in 
succession." 

"Was  he  ?  Poor  devil !  What  does  he  do  now  ?  An  ex- 
champion  is  a  pitiable  object." 

John  considered  the  question.     His  face  brightened. 

"The  truth  is,  old  man,  that  Windlesham  is  the  best  of  the 
lot.    He's  keen  about  other  things.     Golf,  for  instance." 

"Golf!    Heaven  help  him!" 

*'And  dry  fly-fishing." 

115 


Some  Happenings 

"That's  much  better.  I  fish  myself.  A  successful  fisher* 
man  must  be  an  intelligent  man.  Great  opportunities,  too, 
for  introspection  and  observation.  How  are  you  getting  on, 
John,  with  your  microscopical  work?" 

''Down  and  out,"  replied  John,  unconsciously  quoting 
Bott.  *lt  was  only  pat-ball.  I'm  shaping  nicely  at  the 
wall-game." 

"Wall-game?    You  play  football  in  June?" 

John  explained.  Toomer  opened  a  capacious  mouth  to 
reply,  glanced  at  John's  amiable  face,  and  remained  for 
the  first  time  in  his  Hfe  absolutely  silent. 

At  dinner  that  night  Toomer  sat  next  to  Mrs.  Pragson, 
who  was  in  wonderful  form.  She  could  do  just  two  things 
better  than  any  woman  of  her  advanced  years — play  tennis 
and  talk  about  it  afterwards.    Said  she  to  Toomer : 

"Extraordinary,  isn't  it,  what  adulation  a  champion  re- 
ceives nowadays?" 

"You  are  speaking  of  Jack  Johnson  ?" 

"Jack— Johnson?" 

"The  coloured  prize-fighter." 

"I  never  heard  of  him.     I  was  speaking  of  the  lawif 
tennis  champion." 

Toomer  was  quite  honest  with  her. 

"Who  is  he?"  he  asked. 

Mrs.  Pragson  turned  purple.  That  was  her  only  available 
tint  in  moments  of  excitement.  Then  she  addressed  the 
assembled  company  in  tones  of  scathing  scorn. 

"Mr.  Toomer,"  she  announced,  "does  not  know  the  name 
of  the  present  champion.  I  positively  refuse  to  enlighten 
him." 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  said  Toomer  grimly.  "I  asked  the 
question  out  of  mere  politeness.  Let  us  call  him  X?  Does 
X  receive  much  adulation  ?" 

"Tons  and  tons !    More  than  anybody  else." 
ii6 


The  Supreme  Event 

"Oh,  come!    More  than,  let  us  say,  Madame  Melba?" 

"I  hope  so.  Our  enthusiasm  about  music  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing  is  rather  a  pose.    If  you  had  said — Jessop?'' 

"And  who  is  Jessop?"  asked  Toomer. 

Bott's  prominent  eyes  nearly  popped  out  of  his  head.  He 
asked  solemnly : 

"Is  it  possible  that  you  have  never  seen  Jessop  bat?" 

"Oh !  a  cricketer.    Yes,  yes,  I  have  heard  of  Jessop." 

"It  is  quite  obvious,"  remarked  Mrs.  Pragson,  "that  you 
don't  care  about  games,  Mr.  Toomer." 

"I  don't,"  said  Toomer.  "I  have  never  shattered  my 
jelf-respect  by  hitting  at,  or  kicking,  a  ball.     Well,  well,  I 

had  no  intention  of  astonishing  you"  (Oh,  Toomer !), 

"but  short  sight  and  varicose  veins  have  constrained  me  to 
give  my  attention  and  interest  to  literature  and  art."  He 
continued  pleasantly:  "All  of  you  play  games,  but  you 
must  admit  that  one  can't  talk  about  them,  not,  I  mean,  in- 
telligently, for  more  than  five  minutes  at  a  time." 

"I  beg  your  pardon." 

"Pray,  don't  misunderstand  me.  It  is  possible,  of  course, 
to  prattle  on  for  ever  and  ever  about  golf.  For  my  sins  I 
have  overheard  such  futile  twaddle,  but  I  was  immensely 
struck  by  one  thing." 

"May  I  ask  you  to  explain?" 

"I  was  about  to  do  so.  What  applies  to  golf  applies 
equally  to  all  chatter  about  games.  Tom  allows  Dick  to 
buck  about  his  confounded  round,  because  it  is  mutually 
agreed  between  them  that  Dick  is  to  have  his  innings  later 
on.  But  Tom  doesn't  listen  to  Dick,  and  Dick  doesn't  listen 
to  Tom.  That,  I  submit,  is  not  intelligent  conversation.  It's 
a  singularly  British  and  foolish  sort  of  compromise  between 
two  bores." 

John,  at  the  head  of  his  hospitable  board,  smiled  nerv- 

117 


Some  Happenings 

ously.  Everybody  else  stared,  open-mouthed,  at  Toomer. 
He  went  on : 

"Conversation,  to-day,  has  become  atrophied  by  disuse." 

Mrs.  Pragson  perceived  an  opportunity  to  score  and 
seized  it. 

"We  all  believe  in  practice,"  she  said.  "Please  go  on,  Mr. 
Toomer.    Will  you  deign  to  converse  with  usf" 

Toomer  accepted  the  challenge.  During  the  rest  of  din- 
ner he  held  forth  amazingly.  Never  had  he  talked  better. 
John  kept  him  going.  But  he  left  early  upon  Monday 
morning,  and  he  said  to  John,  when  he  took  leave : 

"My  dear  old  man,  you  are  going  to  seed.  You've  got  the 
wrong  crowd  about  you.  Why,  dash  it !  that  ass,  Bott, 
patronises  you.  Henry  and  I  were  speaking  about  you  the 
other  day  at  the  club.  You've  married  a  dear  little  girl,  but, 
good  Lord !  you  haven't  married  her  gang,  have  you  ?" 

"The  fact  is,"  said  John,  "I'm  marking  time.  I'm  looking 
on  for  the  moment,  sort  of  umpire.    Don't  you  worry !" 

"I  do  worry,"  said  the  honest  Toomer. 

With  that  parting  shot  he  went  his  way.  Bott  expressed 
the  general  sense  of  John's  other  guests,  when  he  remarked : 

"That  fellow  Toomer  is  un-English !" 


IV 


At  Wimbledon,  in  July,  Mabel  triumphed  gloriously.  She 
fought  her  way,  smilingly,  on  the  top  of  the  tennis  tree.  She 
won  the  semi-final  of  the  All  Comers'  Ladies'  Singles.  Bott 
and  she  were  only  barely  defeated  in  the  final  of  the  Mixed 
Doubles. 

The  great  match  for  the  All  Comers'  followed.  It  took 
place,  of  course,  in  the  centre  court,  and  attracted  an  im- 
mense crowd.  John  watched  the  sets  from  his  seat  in  the 
ii8 


The  Supreme  Event 

competitors'  gallery.  Mabel's  name  shed  a  reflected  lustre 
upon  him.  Everybody  talked  tennis  to  him.  Maidens,  with 
the  complexion  and  the  stride  of  an  Indian  chief,  entreated 
his  advice.  One  or  two  demanded  his  autograph!  When 
an  eminent  jurist  asked  him  suddenly  what  he  thought  of 
the  political  situation,  he  replied: 

"  'Vantage,  I  think,  to  server  1" 

Outwardly  he  was  calm.  But  civil  war  waged  within. 
He  was  more  in  love  with  his  pretty  v/ife  than  ever,  and 
her  conduct  throughout  the  long  tournament  evoked  his 
sincere  respect  and  admiration.  For  her  dear  sake  he 
prayed  for  victory ;  for  his  own,  he  dared  to  adumbrate  de- 
feat. Victory  meant  a  prolongation  of  purgatory  for  him, 
but  it  would  exalt  her  to  the  highest  heaven.  Defeated, 
Mabel  might  give  a  thought  to  the  empty  nursery.  John 
ground  his  teeth  with  rage  when  he  thought  of  Armitage 
Court  passing  to  his  next  of  Tcin,  whom  he  detested.  Mabel 
— God  bless  her — would  make  the  most  delightful  mother. 
She  had  good  sense,  good  temper,  good  health.  What  at- 
tributes for  a  potential  matron ! 

Her  antagonist  provoked  comparisons  and  uneasy  specu- 
lations. Mrs.  Higginbotham  was  an  ex-champion,  one  of 
the  old  Wimbledon  Guard.  Her  face  was  as  terrifying  as 
her  overhand  service.  Mabel,  alas !  served  underhand,  and, 
therefore,  was  manifestly  at  a  disadvantage.  The  ex-cham- 
pion was  famous  for  her  all-round  stroke  equipment,  and 
— as  the  reporters  said — the  "fine  generalship  which  di- 
rected it."  Mabel,  on  the  other  hand,  was  much  younger, 
more  active,  and  a  finer  back-line  player. 

The  experts  predicted  a  tremendous  match,  a  fight  to  the 
closest  finish.  More,  it  was  whispered  that  the  winner  of 
the  All  Comers'  would  be  Open  Champion.  The  holder  was 
said  to  be  out  of  form. 

During  the  first  two  games  Mabel  scored  but  one  point. 

119 


Some  Happenings 

Mrs.  Higginbotham  ''rushed"  her.  The  redoubtable  lady 
*'ran  in"  on  her  judiciously  placed  service,  and  smashed 
Mabel's  returns.    Bott  whispered  to  John: 

''Old  Higgs  can't  keep  that  up.     It  tires  even  me." 
Mabel  smiled  confidently.    Again  Bott  whispered  to  John : 
"Mabel's   smile  warms   the   cockles   of  my  heart.     She 
has  the  temperament.    Old  Higgs  hasn't.    If  Mabel  gets  the 
best  of  her  presently,  hair  will  be  flying  about  the  court!" 
"Mrs.  Higginbotham  looks  ferocious." 
"Yes ;  early  in  life  she  got  the  tennis  face." 
John  sighed.     Would  his  Mabel  acquire  those  deep  fur- 
rows between  her  pretty  brows,  that  grim  expression,  those 
massive  shoulders  and  hips? 
Biff!    Bang! 

Old  Higgs  was  driving  terrifically,  sending  the  balls  to 
Mabel's  back  hand.  Mabel  returned  them,  smiling.  The 
crowd  howled  itself  hoarse  when  she  captured  the  third 
game  after  deuce  had  been  called  nine  times.  Bott  was 
trembling  with  excitement  and  enthusiasm.  John  became 
acutely  sensible  that  this  man  beside  him  was  keener  than 
himself.     He  heard  Bott  saying: 

"Popular  opinion  counts  in  these  contests.  The  will  of 
the  crowd.  Ninety-nine  out  of  every  hundred  here  want 
Mabel  to  win.    That's  an  asset !" 

"Shush-h-h!"  murmured  Porson,  who  was  just  behind. 
John  realised  that  this  match  ought  to  be  played  in  breath- 
less silence. 

The  result  went  up  on  the  great  scoring-board.  The 
voice  of  the  umpire  drifted  across  the  ground : 

"Three  games  to  one.     Mrs.  Higginbotham  leads." 
John  felt  that  his  satisfaction  was  indecent.     He  mut- 
tered to  himself :    "My  Mab  must  win.    I  really  want  her 
to  win.     She  deserves  to  win." 

The  stand  rocked  when  Mabel  took  the  fifth  game.    She 

120 


The  Supreme  Event 

had  begfun  to  pass  her  antagonist  down  the  side  lines.  Again 
and  again  her  balls  pitched  within  a  few  inches  of  them. 

''What  a  lovely  length !''  said  Bott. 

Old  Higgs  won  the  sixth  game  on  her  service,  but  she 
moved  less  swiftly  to  the  centre  of  the  court.  Then  a 
very  demon  of  energy  and  determination  seemed  to  possess 
her.  Bott  had  to  admit  that  she  was  irresistible.  She  had 
grasped  the  vital  necessity  of  overwhelming  a  younger  and 
more  active  player. 

First  set  to  Mrs.  Higginbotham !     Six  games  to  two! 

The  two  women  met  near  the  umpire's  chair.  John  could 
see  that  Mabel  was  saying  something  pleasant  to  the  ex- 
champion.  What  a  darling!  What  a  sportswoman! 
Toomer  ought  to  have  seen  that. 

Old  Higgs  smiled  grimly  as  she  listened  to  Mabel's  con- 
gratulations. Mabel  had  not  turned  a  hair.  John's  heart 
bounded  within  him.  Bott,  however,  was  grinding  his 
teeth  and  making  inarticulate  noises.  His  face  brightened 
when  he  saw  Mrs.  Higginbotham's  hand  go  to  her  mouth. 

"Thank  the  Lord !"  he  exclaimed. 

"What's  up  ?"  inquired  John.  By  this  time  any  mean  wish 
that  his  beloved  might  be  defeated  had  passed  from  him. 
He  would  have  melted  down  the  porringers  and  tankards 
and  turned  his  famous  Gainsborough  face  to  the  wall  had 
such  sacrifices  been  exacted  by  the  gods. 

"Old  Higgs  has  indigestion." 

"What?" 

"She's  just  stuffed  a  bismuth  lozenge  into  her  mouth. 
There  goes  another.  Yes,  the  poor  old  girl  is  a  wonder,  but 
that  running  up  on  her  service  has  been  too  much  for  her 
little  Mary." 

Mabel  won  the  first  two  games  of  the  second  set,  after  a 
terrific  and  memorable  duel  a  oiitrance. 

Her  steady  returns  down  the  side  lines,  her  self-posses- 

121 


Some  Happenings 

sion,  and  above  all  her  lobbing,  defeated  the  more  brilliant 
veteran.  The  crowd  became  delirious.  The  gift  of 
prophecy  descended  upon  Bott.  He  gripped  John's  arm 
fiercely  as  he  whispered : 

"Mabel  will  take  this  set  fairly  easily.  Then  we  shall  see 
the  most  interesting  game  of  the  year.  Old  Higgs  will  pull 
herself  together.  She'll  play  canny.  Mabel  will  be  over- 
confident.   I  can  hardly  look  on !" 

And  John  saw  that  his  face  was  white  and  drawn.  He 
asked  himself  the  abomhiable  question:  **Ought  Mab  to 
have  married  Bott?" 

Mabel  took  the  second  set,  but  not  easily — fourteen  games 
were  played.  The  Higginbotham  revealed  discouragement 
by  little  gestures  of  annoyance.  Twice  she  was  within  a 
point  of  winning  the  set.  And  then  occurred  an  incident 
which  will  be  repeated  for  ever  and  ever  when  champions 
and  ex-champions  gather  together.  The  umpire  had  just  de- 
clared *'Deuce!"  The  Higginbotham  served  a  fault.  Her 
second  service  struck  the  top  of  the  net.  Bott  was  confident 
of  this ;  so  was  John.  But  the  umpire — umpires  are  not 
infallible — declared  otherwise.  Mabel's  clear  voice  was 
heard  in  protest : 

"It  was  a  let." 

The  umpire  frowned.  Mabel  had  returned  the  service. 
In  a  portentous  tone  he  delivered  his  ultimatum : 

"'Vantage  to  striker," 

The  Higginbotham  served  another  fault.  Obviously  the 
wrong  decision  of  the  umpire  had  disturbed  her.  Her  sec- 
ond service  was  lamentably  weak.  It  pitched  short,  bound- 
ing high.  Mabel  never  failed  to  punish  such  weak  deliv- 
eries. This,  indeed,  was  her  famous  push  shot,  taught  to 
her  by  Bott — a  crisp,  low  return  across  the  court.  She 
raised  her  racquet — and  let  the  ball  go  by ! 

The  shout  that  ascended  from  the  spectators  will  never 

122 


The  Supreme  Event 

be  forgotten  by  those  who  heard  it.  DeHberately,  after  her 
own  graceful  fashion,  Mabel  had  righted  a  wrong,  giving 
back  the  lost  point  to  her  antagonist  with  a  smile  which  cap- 
tivated the  multitude. 

'1  couldn't  have  done  that,"  said  Bott.  "What  a  girl! 
What  a  woman!" 

"What  a  wife !"  thought  John. 

The  third  and  final  set  began  in  impressive  silence.  From 
a  technical  point  of  view  it  was  not  so  interesting  as  those 
which  had  preceded  it.  Neither  player  dared  to  be  brilliant. 
The  Higginbotham  remained  on  the  back  line,  the  ball 
travelled  from  one  end  to  the  other  with  a  precision  that 
became  monotonous.  Throughout  this  set  the  elder  woman, 
although  betraying  signs  of  distress,  played  w^ith  increas- 
ing judgment  and  steadiness. 

"She'll  just  pull  it  off,"  said  Bott.  "The  fire  is  going  out 
of  Mabel's  drive ;  her  back  hand  is  getting  weaker." 

The  veteran  was  well  aware  of  this. 

Five  games  all! 

The  excitement  was  beginning  to  tell  upon  John.  He 
experienced  odd  thrills  chasing  themselves  up  and  down 
his  spinal  column.  He  shoved  his  hands  deep  into  his 
pockets,  because  they  were  trembling.  Twice  tears  came 
into  his  eyes.     He  reflected : 

"This  is  only  a  game." 

But  he  knew  it  was  much  more  than  that.  It  seemed  to 
him,  as  he  stared  at  his  wife,  that  this  "game,"  the  game 
which  he  secretly  detested,  was  revealing  to  him  a  new 
Mabel.  He  began  to  understand  what  games  have  done  for 
England,  what  the  winning  and  the  losing  may  mean  in 
their  ultimate  effect  upon  character.  And  he  knew  in- 
stinctively that  defeat,  not  victory,  would  reveal  his  young 
wife  to  him,  so  that  he  would  see  her  with  clear  vision.  If 
her  courage  failed,  if  her  smile  vanished,  then  he  would  have 

123 


Some  Happenings 

to  acknowledge  that  this  game  was  indeed  too  big  a  thing  in 
her  eyes,  that  winning  it  meant  the  loss  of  a  sense  of  propor- 
tion, a  monstrous  inflation  of  heart  and  head. 

The  Higginbotham  won  the  sixth  game  easily. 

John  gazed  at  Mabel  as  she  crossed  into  the  other  court. 
For  an  instant  their  eyes  met.  Her  glance  was  not  reassur- 
ing. He  beheld  a  tennis  face  in  its  first  phase  of  manufac- 
ure.  Mabel  still  smiled,  but  the  smile  was  set  and  hard. 
Faint  lines  showed  themselves  upon  her  smooth  forehead. 
There  was  an  unmistakable  likeness  between  her  and  the 
Higginbotham. 

She  began  to  serve. 

The  ex-champion  returned  the  ball  into  the  net.  The 
crowd  remained  chivalrously  silent. 

"Fifteen — love,"  proclaimed  the  umpire. 

The  next  service  skimmed  over  the  net,  and  twisted  away 
from  the  Higginbotham's  left  hand.  It  was  only  possible 
to  return  such  a  ball  into  a  place  where  Mabel  rushed  in  to 
receive  it.  She  smashed  it  on  to  the  back  line,  and  the 
chalk  flew.    Nevertheless  the  linesman  gave  it  "out." 

"Fifteen  all,"  announced  the  umpire. 

There  was  a  groan  from  the  crowd  who  had  just  seen  the 
chalk  fly.  A  memorable  rally  followed.  It  seemed  to  John 
that  the  players  had  turned  into  machines.  The  ball  was 
driven  from  back  line  to  back  line  with  astounding  velocity. 
John  put  up  his  glasses,  powerful  binoculars.  Mabel  was 
still  smiling,  as  if  tennis  were  the  best  fun  in  the  world, 
but  John  noticed  that  just  as  she  hit  the  ball  with  that  up- 
ward lift  which  distinguished  her  drive,  she  winced  as  if  in 
pain.  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  it  might  be  physical 
pain. 

Fifteen — thirty ! 

Mab  served  a  short  one.  The  ex-champion  banged  it 
124 


The  Supreme  Event 

violently  down  the  right  side  line.     It  was  difficult  to  de- 
termine whether  the  ball  was  just  in  or  just  out. 

"Fifteen — forty,"  declared  the  umpire. 

Everybody  howled  with  delight  when  Mabel  won  the  next 
two  points. 

"Deuce." 

And  then  Luck — that  diabolical  factor  in  all  games — took 
a  hand  in  this  game.  Mabel  served  from  the  right  court. 
The  ball  was  well  placed.  Mrs.  Higginbotham  returned  it 
fast  and  low.  Mabel  waited  for  it  upon  the  back  line.  But 
it  touched  the  top  of  the  net  and  fell  dead ! 

"Curse  it !"  cried  Bott,  in  an  agonised  voice. 

Mabel  served  again.  Once  more  began  a  long  rally,  each 
woman  standing  a  couple  of  yards  behind  the  back  line. 
And  again,  with  his  glasses  upon  his  wife's  face,  John  no- 
ticed the  odd  little  wince  as  Mabel  drove  the  ball,  the  pres- 
sure of  her  white  teeth  upon  her  lower  lip. 

An  angry  roar  rose  from  the  crowd,  followed  by  shouts 
of  applause.  Luck  for  the  last  time  favoured  Mrs.  Higgin- 
botham.   A  fierce  drive  topped  the  net,  and  fell  dead. 

The  players  approached  each  other;  and  the  vast  differ- 
ence between  them  was  tremendously  impressive.  Mabel 
showed  no  signs  of  the  battle ;  the  elder  woman  was  haggard 
and  gasping.  Mabel  held  out  her  hand,  smiling.  Mrs.  Hig- 
ginbotham saw  the  fresh  young  face  close  to  hers,  saw  the 
generous  beam  in  the  eyes,  heard  the  generous  words  of 
congratulation.  During  her  strenuous  life  she  had  scorned 
sentiment,  or  any  display  of  feeling  in  public.  Always  she 
had  fought  hard  for  victory,  neither  ashamed  of  showing 
keenness,  nor  disappointment  when  she  lost.  To  the  amaze- 
ment of  friends  and  enemies,  the  winner  of  the  All  Comers' 
bent  down  and  kissed  Mabel.  Bott  shouted.  Then  he 
turned  to  the  silent  husband. 

125 


Some  Happenings 

"By  Jove!  old  man,  if  the  crowd  could  get  at  her,  she 
would  be  kissed  to  death !'' 

V 

V 

The  Press  said  that  Mabel's  defeat  had  been  a  greater 
achievement  than  the  ex-champion's  victory.  After  din- 
ner that  night,  when  Mabel's  health  was  drunk,  John  made 
a  short  speech. 

"I  have  a  little  present  for  my  wife,"  he  said.  "A  sur- 
prise. The  country  tournaments  are  ahead  of  us,  and  I 
mean  to  buy  for  her  a  motor  caravan.  She  has  chosen  the 
Southern  circuit,  and  we  shall  have  a  glorious  time  travel- 
ling leisurely  from  place  to  place." 

"It  will  be  a  triumphal,  almost  a  royal,  progress,"  af- 
firmed Bott. 

"I  think  not,"  said  Mabel  quietly. 

All  eyes  were  turned  upon  her.  She  stood  up,  and  those 
present  remarked  afterwards  that  she  looked  at  nobody  ex- 
cept her  husband. 

"I  shall  not  play  in  public  again." 

The  announcement,  made  so  emphatically,  so  convinc- 
ingly, aroused  a  storm  of  protest  and  interrogation. 

When  silence  was  established,  Mabel  continued: 

"I  have  a  bad  tennis-elbow.  I  showed  it  to  a  surgeon 
yesterday.  He  warned  me  that  if  I  played  to-day,  I  might 
never  play  again,  but  I  did  play.  Please  don't  pity  me.  In 
my  opinion  tennis  is  the  grandest  and  j oiliest  game  there 
is,  but  it  is  not  everything  in  life."  Her  voice  softened 
oddly,  and  a  quaver  in  it  held  everybody  mute.  "I  am  go- 
ing back  to  my  home.  I  am  going  alone  with  John.  We 
shall  begin  our  real  honeymoon  to-morrow." 


126 


VIII 

fenella's  bounder  ' 

THE  Bounder  was  a  millionaire  (the  money  had  been 
made  by  his  father  from  the  sale  of  some  simple  de- 
vice for  curling  the  hair)  ;  he  was  young,  he  was  good-look- 
ing. But  his  claim  to  the  consideration  of  London  society 
was  the  amazing  fact  that  the  Marquess  of  Melthorpe's  only 
sister  had  promised  to  become  his  wife;  not — as  the  gossips 
pointed  out — not  because  the  Bounder  was  rich  beyond  the 
dreams  of  avarice,  nor  for  other,  so  to  speak,  secondary 
reasons,  but  because  in  a  primal  and  elemental  fashion  the 
maid  loved  the  man.  None,  not  even  the  Bounder's  female 
relations,  questioned  the  quality  or  the  quantity  indeed  of 
Fenella's  love,  which  she  wore  on  her  sleeve,  on  her  lips, 
and  on  her  eyes — the  prettiest  eyes  in  town.  This  public 
exhibition  of  a  passion  too  great  to  be  concealed  was  as  a 
scourge  of  scorpions  to  Fenella's  people,  who  made 
confession  that  the  family  had  never  understood  Fenella, 
and  implied  that  any  attempt  to  do  so  on  the  part  of  out- 
siders would  be  fatuous,  and,  indeed,  an  impertinence. 
Where  such  a  family  had  failed,  what  person  could  expect 
to  succeed? 

Fenella  broke  the  news  of  her  engagement  to  her  brother, 
a  gentleman  known  at  Eton  as  'Tetronius." 

*'My  dear   Fin,"  he   said  slowly,   "you   cannot  possibly 
marry  this " 

''Call  him  a  man,"  suggested  the  sister.     *'Yes,  I  can — 
and  I  shall  marry  him." 

127 


Some  Happenings 

"He  is  a  bounder,"  said  the  marquess,  with  an  air  of 
finality. 

"He  isn't,"  said  Fenella  indignantly;  "and  I  shall  never 
speak  to  you  again  if  you  are  not  nice  to  him." 

The  marquess,  under  protest,  promised  to  be  "nice" 
to  the  man  his  sister  had  chosen.  He  travelled  on  the  line 
of  least  resistance;  and  he  consoled  himself  by  reflecting 
that  if  he  accepted  the  Bounder  the  world  would  laugh  with 
him ;  if,  on  the  other  hand,  he  refused  to  accord  a  blessing, 
which  in  a  degenerate  age  had  really  no  social  or  commercial 
value,  the  world  would  laugh  at  him!  Moreover,  he  was 
deeply  attached  to  his  sister. 

Many  men  were  deeply  attached  to  Fenella,  for  the  girl 
had  charm;  and  some,  including  a  duke,  were  suitors;  but 
she  refused  His  Grace  most  handsomely,  and  gave  herself 
to  the  Bounder. 

The  Bounder's  friends  said  that  he  was  dazed  at  his  good 
fortune.  Certainly  abstraction  dimmed  his  eyes.  He  saw  a 
glorified  world  lying  in  the  palm  of  his  hand,  and  the  vision 
splendid  gave  him  pause.  He  had  often  told  himself  that 
the  world  was  an  oyster  which  a  rich  man  could  open  with 
his  pen;  but  the  oyster,  he  feared,  would  not  contain  a 
pearl,  a  perfect  pearl,  such  as  young  men,  even  bounders, 
fashion  in  their  dreams;  that,  the  greatest  thing,  would 
be  denied  to  him,  because  he  had  so  much.  To  do  him  jus- 
tice, it  must  be  added  that  Fenella,  had  she  been  a  milkmaid, 
would  have  inspired  in  him  the  same  irresistible  passion; 
and  Fenella  herself  had  confessed  that  her  interest  in  the 
Bounder  was  kindled  at  first  sight.  The  other  men  of 
whom  mention  has  been  made  professed  a  passion  which 
paled  when  compared  with  the  Bounder's,  because  it  was  in- 
termittent. His  Grace,  for  instance,  was  a  politician,  a 
sportsman,  and  a  dilettante.  Fenella  was  sensible  that  in 
becoming  a  duchess  she  would  own  a  one-fifth  interest  in  a 
128 


Fenella's  Bounder 

duke,  and  she  wanted  more.  "She  wants,"  said  the  mar- 
quess, "the  whole  hog,  and,  by  the  Lord,  she  has  got  him." 
The  allusion  to  the  unclean  beast  was  brutal,  but  the  mar- 
quess made  his  meaning  clear. 

**The  young  man  is  certainly  very  devoted,"  an  aunt  re- 
plied, not  w^ithout  a  sniff,  "and  he  is  rich." 

The  marquess  sighed.  He  was  not  rich;  and  because 
gold  at  times  seemed  so  desirable  to  him,  he  had  trained 
himself  to  despise  it.  He  felt  now  that  the  Bounder's  gold 
would  discolour  his  ancient  silver.  *T  wish  he  were  less 
rich,"  he  said  thoughtfully. 

The  Bounder  sent  wonderful  presents  to  his  beloved — 
gems  of  great  price,  and  daily  offerings  of  milk-white  blos- 
soms. The  engagement  ring  was  a  lovely  emerald,  square 
and  flawless  (there  are  few  flawless  emeralds),  surrounded 
by  small  brilliants.    The  marquess  admired  it  immensely. 

"But  you  call  the  man  who  chose  it  a  bounder,"  she 
pouted.  Her  brother  was  silent.  "And  I  heard  you  say," 
she  continued,  "that  a  bounder  remains  a  bounder." 

"He  is  a  good  fellow.  Fin,"  replied  the  head  of  the  house. 

"As  if  I  did  not  knov/  that.  He  is  one  of  the  very  best: 
honest,  loyal,  strong — all  that  becomes  a  man." 

"His  ties " 

"You  object  to  his  ties!  Good  heavens!  That  one  he 
was  wearing  to-day  I — /  knitted." 

"I  was  speaking  of  his  relations,"  said  the  brother.  "They 
are " 

"Don't  say  it!  I  know  they  are  what  they  are — poor 
dears !    You  needn't  speak  of  them  at  all." 

"But  you  must  speak  to  them,"  said  the  marquess.  "You 
are  making  a  blunder,  Fin.  It  is  kinder  to  say  so  now  than 
later.  Between  you  and  this  man  lies  the  barrier  of  a  thou- 
sand-and-one  nameless  differences !" 

"Molehills !" 

129 


Some  Happenings 

"Mountains,  Fin !" 

"Because  you  think  as  you  think,  you  must  be  extra  nice 
to.  him  when  he  comes  down  to  Melthorpe." 

"Of  course.    I  do — er — respect  him." 

"I  should  like  to  box  your  ears,"  said  Fenella. 

But  when  she  was  alone,  especially  at  night,  her  mind 
brooded  unpleasantly  upon  the  ties  which  were  not  of  her 
knitting :  some  loud-voiced  cousins,  an  obese  uncle  who  lived 
at  Oapham,  some  prim  evangelical  spinsters  of  aunts,  who 
at  the  first  meeting  addressed  her  as  "my  lady."  The  Boun- 
der had  such  sterling  affection  for  these  relations!  He 
seemed  actually  proud  of  the  uncle,  who  had  been  Lord 
Mayor  of  London.    Well,  she  liked  him  the  better  because 

he  was  loyal  to  his  own  people;   and  yet — and  yet 

Was  he  really  and  truly  a  bounder  ?  She  could  not  answer 
the  question.  The  marquess,  of  course,  was  an  authority  on 
-the  subject,  in  himself  a  sort  of  supreme  court  of  appeal. 
Still,  he  was  not  the  Pope  of  Rome.  Then  she  found  herself 
blushing  because  she  suddenly  remembered  an  entry  in  her 
diary  made  some  months  before.  "I  have  met  a  most  in- 
teresting man"  (she  had  written)  ;  "he  has  head,  heart,  and 
a  fine  lean  body :  but  he  is — alas !  a  bounder !" 

The  horrible  word  was  underscored.  Yes ;  that  had  been 
her  first  impression,  and  as  such  not  without  value.  A 
bounder !  Now  that  she  knew  him  and  loved  him,  it  seemed 
incredible  that  she  should  have  written  him  down — a  boun- 
der !  Was  love  blind  ?  Could  certain  great  qualities  obscure 
small  defects?    Possibly. 

Another  problem  presented  itself.  Did  he  suspect  that 
he  was  regarded  by  some  hypercritics  as  a  bounder?  This 
nice  question  could  not  be  determined.  The  marquess  was 
of  opinion  that  a  bounder  was  no  more  conscious  of  his 
bounds  than  a  kangaroo.  According  to  this  most  noble  and 
130 


Fenelia's  Bounder 

puissant  prince  a  bounder  ceased  to  be  a  bounder  when  he 
was  dead — and  not  till  then. 

After  Goodwood,  the  Bounder  travelled  to  Melthorpe 
Royal,  which  lies  in  the  Wessex  country^,  not  far  from  the 
ancient  town  of  Sherborne.  As  he  was  taking  his  ticket  he 
noticed  a  very  smart  young  woman,  who,  catching  his  eye, 
nodded  and  smiled  in  a  friendly  fashion.  The  Bounder  lifted 
his  hat,  well  assured  that  he  had  met  her  before,  but  unable 
to  give  her  a  name.  At  the  same  moment  she  came  forward, 
holding  out  her  hand.  '*How  delightful!  You  will  take 
care  of  poor  little  me — won't  you?" 

The  Bounder  did  not  dare  to  ask  for  her  name,  and  per- 
haps a  sense  that  he  ought  to  know  this  radiant  maiden 
infused  his  answer  with  a  shade  too  much  warmth.  The 
girl  was  so  pretty,  and  evidently  so  accustomed  to  lip-serv- 
ice, that  the  Bounder  had  not  the  heart  to  be  distant. 

Accordingly  it  came  to  pass  that  within  a  few  minutes 
they  found  themselves  alone  in  a  carriage,  where  a  discreet 
guard,  with  a  wife  and  a  large  family  dependent  upon  his 
discretion,  took  care  that  they  should  not  be  disturbed. 
The  maiden  was  anxious  to  talk,  the  man  willing  to  listen, 
hoping  that  chance  would  furnish  him  with  a  clue  to  her 
name.  For  half  an  hour  they  discussed  subjects  of  current 
interest ;  then — without  warning — a  bolt  fell  from  the  blue. 

"Have  you  met,"  she  asked  sweetly,  ''this  awful  Bounder 
whom  the  Melthorpe  girl  insists  on  marrying?" 

"Undoubtedly  the  Bounder  ought  to  have  replied  instant- 
ly, "I  am  he" ;  but  he  didn't.  His  tongue  clave  to  his  mouth, 
and  he  said  nothing.  He  could  not  even  think  articulately. 
The  girl  was  so  obviously  a  lady,  her  opinion  on  the  subject 
was  as  obviously  of  value. 

"You  must  have  met  him,"  she  continued. 

"Yes ;  I  h-h-have  m-m-met  him,"  stammered  he. 

131 


Some  Happenings 

"So  have  I,"  she  continued.  "I  met  him  at  HurHngham 
last  year,  and  for  my  Hfe  I  can't  recall  his  face  or  anything 
about  him.  He  must  have  been  very  commonplace,  other- 
wise I  should  not  have  forgotten  him  so  easily,  because  I  do, 
as  a  rule,  remember  faces.  I,"  she  added  sweetly,  "recog- 
nised yours  at  once." 

"I  am  commonplace,"  said  the  Bounder  nervously.  He 
felt  that  this  was  an  idiotic  remark,  but  the  girl  did  not 
seem  to  think  so. 

"Oh  no,"  she  murmured,  "you  are  not."  She  eyed  him 
frankly.  "You  have  a  strong  face."  She  paused,  and  her 
cheek  was  tinged  with  a  faint  colour.  "A  face,"  she  added, 
"that  no  woman  would  forget,  and  that  every  woman  would 
instinctively  trust — that  is  why  I  spoke  to  you,  because — 
now  don't  be  very  angry  with  me — when  I  first  spoke  to 
you  I  could  not  fit  a  name  to  your  face.  It  was  not  till  we 
had  talked  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  that  I  recalled  who  you 
really  are." 

"You  know  who  I  am — now?" 

"Of  course.  You  look  incredulous.  You  are  Lord  Ven. 
And  now  tell  me  about  the  Bounder !    What  is  he  like  ?" 

"He  is  not  very  unlike  me." 

"I  can't  believe  that." 

"It  is  a  fact.     I  am  often  called  by  his  name." 

"Such  a  dreadful  name !"  sighed  the  young  lady.  *Toor 
Fin !" 

"She  is  a  friend  of  yours?" 

"We  are  cousins.  We  used  to  be  great  friends,  but  I've 
not  seen  her  for  an  age.  She  must  have  changed,  because 
the  Melthorpe  people  do  give  themselves  airs — don't  they? 
Melthorpe  has  a  sort  of  I-am-the-potter-ye-are-the-clay  look 
about  him." 

"Ye-es,"  assented  the  Bounder,  smiling,  for  he  knew  that 
expression. 
132 


Fenella's  Bounder 

*'And  they  have  always  been  so  particular,"  continued  the 
maiden  reflectively.  "Of  course  the  man  is  offensively  rich, 
but  Fenella,  they  tell  me,  is  really  in  love.  And  she  is 
such  a  dear  that  Melthorpe  has  not  had  the  moral  courage 
to  forbid  the  banns." 

"You  would  forbid  such  banns?" 

''Certainly.  A  marriage  between  Fenella  and  a  bounder 
must  prove  disastrous.    Surely  you  agree  with  me  ?" 

''From  what  I  know  of  the  man — and  I  may  say  I  know 
him  fairly  well — I  should  have  thought  he  could  have  made 
her  happy.  You  call  him  a  bounder — why  ?  He  was  at  Eton 
and  Christ  Church." 

"Veneer!  There  must  be  common  deal  underneath.  I 
am  told  that  his  house  is  furnished  in  the  most  outrageous 
taste." 

"His  houses  were  furnished  by  his  mother ;  and  I  can  con- 
ceive"— he  hesitated — "that  a  man  of  feeling  would  not  like 
to  pitch  his  mother's  belongings  into  the  street  merely  be- 
cause they  were  not  exactly  what  he  would  have  chosen  him- 
self." 

"How  nice  of  you  to  put  it  that  way !"  said  the  girl.  "A 
bounder  would  never  look  at  the  matter  from  that  point  of 
view." 

"This  bounder  does." 

"You  are  his  friend,  evidently." 

"I  dare  say  I  am  too  lenient  to  his  failings.'* 

"Ah,  you  admit  that  he  has  failings." 

"But  I  have  never  regarded  him  as  a  bounder !" 

"The  world,  our  world,  says  he  is.  And  he  is;  he  mtist 
be!  If  he  were  sitting  where  you  are,  opposite  me,  I  would 
bet  you  sixpence  that  I  could  pick  out  a  dozen  flaws — the 
marks  of  the  beast,  in  fact." 

"You  could  possibly  pick  out  as  many  in  me.     Is  my 

133 


Some  Happenings 

coat  to  your  fancy?  Is  this  ring  tco  gay?  Your  eyes 
have  betrayed  censure." 

She  laughed  gaily.  "But  don't  you  see  that  you  can  wear 
anything,  or  do  anything,  or  say  anything.  A  bounder  must 
never  offend.  Your  coat  is  not  to  my  fancy;  and  a  man 
should  wear  no  jewellery,  but  you  might  be,  like  Esterhazy, 
'all  jools  from  his  jasey  to  his  di'mond  boots,'  and  people 
would  only  call  you  eccentric.  Now  Fenella's  young  man 
never  seems  to  have  grasped  the  fact  that  he  cannot  lightly 
indulge  his  fancy  even  in  checks.    Do  you  see  ?" 

"I  think  I  take  you.  He  may  draw  big  cheques,  but  he 
must  not  wear  them.  It  must  be  very  easy  to  be  a  peer 
and  very  hard  to  be  a  bounder  when — when  you  know  you 
are  a  bounder." 

''Exactly.  Now,  if  you  were  this  particular  Bounder  and 
I  were  my  cousin  Fenella,  I  am  sure  that  I  should  worry — 
mind  you,  you  would  not  know  it — about  your  wearing  that 
ring  and  being  careless  about  your  clothes,  and" — she 
laughed  so  mirthfully  that  her  words  were  quite  void  of  of- 
fence— "and  your  boots.  You  really  ought  to  wear  smarter 
boots." 

"They  are  very  comfortable,"  said  the  Bounder,  looking 
thoughtfully  at  his  square  toes. 

"You  can  afford  to  be  comfortable." 

"Lady  Fenella's  Bounder  has,  I  fear,  been  always  rather 
careless  about  appearances." 

"That  plainly  proves  him  a  bounder,  doesn't  it?  A 
bounder,  anxious  to  become  a  gentleman,  must  consider  the 
feelings  of  others ;  he  ought  to  be  sensible  of  the  necessity 
of  being  very  careful." 

"There  are  two  distinct  standards,  then:  for  the  gentle- 
man, and  tlie  would-be  gentleman?" 

"Of  course.  How  funny  that  you  should  not  know  that! 
That  is  just  where  the  shoe  will  pinch  my  poor  cousin. 

134 


Fenella's  Bounder 

She  is  blind  now,  but  when  the  scales  fall  from-  her  eyes 
she  will  mark  the  blemishes  in  her  husband.  She  will  be 
always  looking  for  them.  Oh  yes,  she  is  making  a  dreadful 
blunder.  I  can  put  myself  in  her  place,  because  I  was  once 
tempted  to  marry  a  sort  of  golden  calf,  really  a  nice  domes- 
tic beast,  but  ill-bred.  And  we  are  all  paupers,  as  you  know. 
But  I  thought  it  out — fairly  and  squarely — and  I  concluded 
that  I  would  sooner  marry  a  poor  gentleman  than  a  rich 
bounder." 

"You  love  the  poor  gentleman?"  he  suggested. 

"I  am  whole-hearted,"  she  confessed.  *'And  therefore 
without  bias.    Fenella  is  making  a  hideous  blunder." 

At  parting  (she  left  the  train  at  Salisbury)  the  Bounder 
asked  for  her  name. 

"You  wretch !"  she  cried.  "What  an  actor  you  are !  I 
am  indeed  hoist  with  my  own  petard.  However,  it  is  nice 
of  you  to  ask  for  my  name,  for  it  proves  plainly  that  I 
have  made  an  impression.  I  am  Dorothy  Dacre.  Au 
revoir!" 

As  the  train  sped  smoothly  on  through  the  green  pastures 
of  Wiltshire  the  Bounder  lay  back  in  his  luxurious  seat  ab- 
jectly miserable  and  uncomfortable,  for,  astride  the  camel 
Fancy,  he  was  bumping  across  a  Sahara,  a  burning,  blinding 
desert  of  sand,  which  an  alluring  mirage  had  obscured.  He 
saw  himself  as  others  saw  him.  Yes,  it  was  true ;  he  had 
never  grasped  what  Miss  Dacre  called  a  fact :  he  had  never 
questioned  his  right  as  an  Englishman  to  please  himself. 
In  a  crass,  crude  fashion  he  had  pleased  himself  in  keeping 
inviolate  his  mother's  blue  satin  curtains  and  gilt  cornices. 
He  wore  a  diamond  ring — not  that  he  cared  a  ha'penny 
for  jewellery,  but  because  it  was  hers.  He  accepted  mis- 
fits, because  he  had  never  given  his  clothes  any  attention  at 
all.    Taking,  so  to  speak,  stock  of  himself,  he  became  dis- 

135 


Some  Happenings 

gusted.  "1  am  a  bounder,"  he  confessed.  "Measured  by 
the  yardstick  of  the  world  I  Uve  in  I  am  certainly  a  bounder. 
I  talk  and  laugh  too  loudly.  I  take  a  plebeian  pleasure  in 
life.  I  have  at  heart  the  sane  and  healthy  instincts  of  the 
— tripper.  I  could  be  perfectly  happy — if  Fenella  were  with 
me — at  Margate!  I  could  enjoy — with  her — bread-and-but- 
ter and  shrimps !" 

Fenella  met  him  at  the  small  station  which  practically 
belonged  to  Lord  Melthorpe,  and  kissed  him  quite  unaffect- 
edly under  the  grinning  gaze  of  the  only  porter.  For  a 
reason  obvious  to  the  reader  the  Bounder  blushed ;  and  Fe- 
nella resented  the  blush.  Indeed,  the  sight  of  it  discoioured 
her  own  milk-white  thoughts.  She  walked  off  the  platform 
with  her  nose  high  in  the  air,  and  her  chin  cocked  at  an 
aristocratic  angle.  The  unhappy  Bounder  followed  humbly 
and  meekly.  He  felt  like  a  bounder,  and  perhaps — the  truth 
will  never  be  known — he  looked  to  Fenella  like  a  bounder. 
When  he  offered  to  drive,  she  refused  him  sharply,  and, 
picking  up  the  ribands,  said  abruptly,  "Where  is  your  moth- 
er's ring?" 

"It's  in  my  pocket,"  he  muttered  sheepishly. 

"In  your  pocket  ?  Good  gracious !  Why  did  you  take  it 
off?" 

The  Bounder  said  that  the  stone  was  rather  large ;  he  did 
not  care  to  wear  jewellery — in  the  morning;  he  had  not  sup- 
posed that  such  things  mattered,  but — but  they  did. 

"Put  it  on  at  once,"  commanded  the  maiden.  As  they 
drove  through  the  delightful  lanes,  she  eyed  him  almost  fur- 
tively ;  and  the  Bounder,  conscious  of  this  sly  scrutiny,  grew 
more  and  more  uneasy. 

"You  don't  like  them?"  he  said  at  last. 

"Them?" 

"My  clothes.    They  are  not  as  well  cut,  perhaps,  as  one 
could  wish." 
136 


Fenella's  Bounder 

^'Rubbish!    As  if  I  cared.    Has  anything  gone  wrong ?" 

He  hesitated,  and  his  hesitation  appealed  strongly  to  Fe- 
nella,  because  she  knew  that  he  was  a  man  to  shoulder  his 
burdens  in  silence. 

Her  voice  was  very  kind,  when  she  whispered :  "Tell  me, 
dear.  Any  trouble  of  yours  will  surely  be  cut  in  half,  if 
you  share  it  with  me." 

But  he  could  not  give  his  trouble  words,  and  yet  with- 
holding the  truth  from  the  woman  who  had  loved  him 
added  to  his  burdens.  He  tried,  lamely,  to  blunt  the  fine 
edge  of  the  situation  with  a  jest. 

"Coming  down,"  he  said,  with  a  guilty  laugh,  "I  had  an 
accounting — struck  a  balance,  in  short ;  and — and  it  was  not 
quite  satisfactory." 

"Oh !" 

"You  see,  Fenella,  I  have  learned  what  the  world  says 
about  you  and  me." 

"And  you  care?" 

He  marked  the  note  of  surprise  dying  away  in  a  diminu- 
endo of  disappointment.  Her  profile  seemed  to  him  even 
more  cleanly  cut  than  usual.  If  a  profile  indicates  charac- 
ter, the  qualities  most  conspicuous  in  Fenella  v/ere  strength, 
delicacy,  generosity,  and  honour.  The  slight  emphasis  on 
the  pronoun  was  certainly  disdainful.  H  she,  a  daughter  of 
the  ancient  house  of  Melthorpe,  did  not  care,  why  should 
he? 

"I  suppose,  dearest,  one  cannot  quite  ignore  the  opinion 
of  the  world." 

His  humility  annoyed  her.  She  had  loved  in  him  the 
primal  man,  standing  erect,  confronting  the  world  and  the 
flesh  and  the  devil  with  keen,  honest  eyes.  It  seemed  in- 
credible that  her  lover  should  bend  his  neck  in  pitiful  in- 
terrogation. With  an  effort  she  changed  the  current  of  talk 
into  another  channel. 

137 


Some  Happenings 

During  the  week  that  followed,  the  unhappy  Bounder 
made  a  sustained  effort  to  dress  and  walk  and  talk  and 
laugh  in  imitation  of  the  marquess.  He  faithfully  under- 
studied that  distinguished  ornament  of  the  peerage,  who 
was  kind  enough  to  observe  that  George  ''meant  well."  In- 
deed, the  peer,  lacking  a  sense  of  humour,  was  much  flat- 
tered by  the  Bounder's  deference — the  more  so,  perhaps,  be- 
cause heretofore  his  future  brother-in-law  had  not  treated 
his  (my  lord's)  opinions  with  that  respect  which  a  nobleman 
is  still  able  to  inspire  in  a  commoner. 

"George  is  appreciative,"  he  remarked  to  Fenella. 

The  young  lady  frowned. 

'*We  shall  make  something  of  George,"  continued  the 
brother  pleasantly ;  "he  is  most  extraordinarily  intelligent." 

If  extraordinary  intelligence  be  a  synonym  for  a  lick- 
penny  awe  of  rank,  George,  assuredly,  was  entitled  to  the 
superlative.  For  love  of  a  woman  this  unhappy  milUonaire 
was  constrained  to  play  the  part  of  parasite  and  pander. 
As  he  had  always  walked  upright,  it  may  be  beHeved  that 
he  made  a  sorry  worm. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  something  happened.  The  day 
had  been  sultry:  one  of  those  steaming  dog-days  which 
leave  the  body  inert  and  invertebrate,  whilst  stimulating  the 
mind  to  intermittent  fits  of  nervous  irritability.  Lying  at 
his  ease  in  a  hammock,  reviewing  the  events  of  the  past 
week,  the  Bounder  was  sensible  that  he  had  been  weaving 
ropes  out  of  sand.  *T  am  a  bounder,"  he  groaned,  "and 
I  shall  never,  never,  never  be  a  perfect  gentleman ;  and  if  I 
were,"  he  added  sotto  voce,  thinking  of  the  marquess's  lim- 
ited capacity  for  enjoyment,  "I  suppose  I  should  wish  to  be 
a  bounder  again." 

In  this  tempestuous  mood  he  was  summoned  to  the  tea- 
table,  spread  with  delicate  fare  beneath  a  glorious  chestnut- 

138 


Fenella's  Bounder 

tree.  Crossing  the  velvety  lawn,  he  idly  marked  the  inscrip- 
tion upon  the  ancient  sundial: 

"iL  EST  l'hEURE  DE  FAIRE  BIEN" 

To  do  good.  Not  to  he  good.  He  reflected  that  in  such  a 
pleasant,  sweet-smelling  garden  as  this  it  was  easy  to  be 
good,  and  to  feel  good.  He  approached  the  marquess. 
"Look  here,  Melthorpe,"  he  began  abruptly — and  Fenella, 
had  she  been  present,  would  have  marked  the  old,  clear 
ring  in  his  voice,  the  voice  which  comes  from  the  heart,  not 
from  the  head — ''would  you  sooner  be  a  fine  gentleman,  as 
you  are,  of  course,  which  in  your  case  is  a  more  or  less  in- 
active condition?  or  would  you  rather  do  fine,  gentle 
things  ?" 

The  marquess  raised  his  deHcate  brows.  "A  gentleman 
does  gentle  things,"  he  said,  in  his  suave,  languid  tones. 

"Does  he?  I  am  not  speaking  of  a  gentleman  as  he  ought 
to  be,  but  of  a  modern  gentleman  as  he  is.  If  Shakespeare, 
for  instance,  were  to  revisit  this  planet  and  go  into  London 
society,  he  would  be  considered  a — bounder." 

"My  dear  George " 

"I  have  put  an  extreme  case.  You  and  I  know  that  the 
fellow  who  never  offends,  who  always  does  the  correct 
thing,  and  says  the  correct  thing,  and  wears  the  correct 
thing,  is  an — ape." 

The  peer's  face  grew  cold. 

"The  world,"  continued  the  Bounder,  "is  full  of  apes. 
It  took  countless  generations  to  turn  apes  into  men,  and  I 
suppose  it  has  taken  nearly  as  many  more  to  turn  men  into 
apes.  It  cannot,"  he  laughed  bitterly,  "it  cannot  be  done 
in  a  week." 

"The  heat  has — er — affected  you,  George,"  said  the  mar- 
quess, sipping  his  iced  tea ;  "and,  speaking  personally,  I 
would  rather  not  discuss  such  topics  in  August." 

139 


Some  Happenings 

"  'II  est  I'heure  de  faire  bien/  "  quoted  the  Bounder,  and 
he  went  away  to  his  room.  That  night  he  wrote  the  follow- 
ing letter,  which  was  delivered  to  Fenella  at  breakfast,  after 
the  Bounder  had  left  Melthorpe : 

"I  cannot  marry  you,"  he  began  abruptly ;  "and  I  am  sure 
that  you  do  not  wish  to  marry  me.  For  some  obscure  rea- 
son we  fell  in  love  with  each  other.  That,  at  least,  is  un- 
questionable. To  me  the  dawn  of  our  love  was  the  divinest 
revelation.  And  believe  me  now  that  the  day  is  dun  the 
glow  still  lingers,  and  will  linger  with  me  to  the  end.  From 
my  heart  I  say  that  it  is  better  to  have  loved  and  lost  you, 
than  to  have  loved  and  won  any  other  woman.  And  yet 
we  cannot  marry,  because  I  am  I  and  you  are  you." 

Fenella  did  not  appear  at  luncheon,  but  after  dinner  she 
told  her  brother,  very  quietly,  that  the  engagement  between 
herself  and  the  Bounder  was  at  an  end.  Lord  Melthorpe 
stroked  his  moustache  to  conceal  a  gratified  smile. 

"You  released  him?"  he  whispered. 

"He  released  himself." 

"He  is  a  cad — a  cad !" 

And  the  world,  when  the  truth  leaked  out,  echoed  the 
brother's  words.  The  Bounder  had  proved  himself  a 
bounder  by  jilting  the  sweetest  girl  in  England. 

About  the  middle  of  September,  Admiral  Dacre  and  his 
daughter,  Dorothy,  came  to  Dorset.  Since  her  mother's 
death  Fenella  had  played  the  part  of  chatelaine  at  Mel- 
thorpe :  a  valuable  experience,  for  the  mistress  of  a  great 
estabHshment  holds  keys  which  unlock  doors  other  than 
those  of  linen  closets.  Moreover,  she  had  taken  pride  and 
pleasure  in  the  performance  of  her  duties,  working  to  such 
good  purposes  that  more  than  one  maiden  was  heard  to 
140 


Fenella's  Bounder 

declare  that  the  marquess  was  likely  to  remain  a  bachelor, 
because  he  had  the  comforts  of  marriage  with  none  of  its 
pains  and  penalties.  Since  the  breaking  of  her  engagement, 
however,  interest  in  her  household  had  steadily  waned,  and 
the  marquess,  who  could  view  with  calm  eyes  and  un- 
wrinkled  brows  plagues  and  famines  and  wars,  began  to 
grow  cross.  It  being  a  substantial  part  of  his  creed  that  a 
wise  man  should  never  do  for  himself  what  another  may 
do  for  him,  he  courteously  entreated  his  cousin  to  read  the 
Riot  Act  to  Fenella. 

"You  have  not  been  here  for  some  time,"  he  observed, 
"and  you  must  mark  a  great  change  for  the  worse.  The  oil 
of  personal  attention  is  lacking.  Say  a  word  in  season, 
like  a  dear  good  girl." 

Dorothy  shrugged  her  shoulders,  pouted,  and  promised  to 
obey.  As  a  matter  of  fact  she  had  already  made  up  a  mind 
much  stronger  than  her  pretty  body  that  Fenella  was  in  need 
of  advice ;  but  she  took  pains  to  prove  to  her  kinsman  that 
she  was  undertaking  a  difficult  and  delicate  task. 

The  marquess  nodded  and  smiled.  'Tf  you  can  exorcise 
the  spectre  of  that  confounded  bounder,  I'll — well,  you'll 
see  what  I'll  do." 

Dorothy  confessed  to  herself  that  she  was  a  wee  bit  afraid 
of  that  haunted  room,  Fenella's  mind — a  room,  as  she  knew, 
kept  locked  night  and  day.  Having  plenty  of  pluck,  and 
only  the  modern  maiden's  modicum  of  reverence,  she  re- 
solved to  burst  in,  breaking  the  lock,  if  necessary,  and  shat- 
tering the  bolts.  Violence  is  the  favourite  weapon  of  the 
young. 

"Fenella,"  she  said  that  same  night,  as  soon  as  they  were 
alone  together,  "you  are  a  fool." 

"Suffer  me  gladly,  then." 

"I  won't.  Look  here:  I  like  to  go  fast  and  straight 
at  my  fences.     There  is  a  big  fence  between  us,  and  I'm 

141 


Some  Happenings 

going  to  jump  it — now.  You  are  eating  your  heart  out  for 
a  man  not  fit  to  marry  your  maid.  There — I  feel  much 
better." 

*'Have  you  seen  this  man?" 

"I  met  him  once." 

"How — how  did  he  impress  you?" 

The  words  came  slowly.  Dorothy's  quick  wits  appre- 
hended their  virtue.  She  had  jumped  her  big  fence  cleanly, 
landing  without  "pecking"  on  firm  ground. 

"He  did  not  impress  me  at  all,  which  is  against  him." 

"Or  against  .  .  .  you." 

"True,  but  I  flatter  myself  that  I  know  a  good  face  when 
I  see  it.  There  is  a  man — well,  never  mind.  What  is  the 
matter?" 

Fenella  had  left  her  chair,  and  was  crossing  the  room. 
She  unlocked  a  desk,  and  took  from  a  drawer  a  photograph 
which  she  placed  in  Dorothy's  hand.  "Is  not  that  a  good 
face?"  she  asked  quietly. 

Had  she  looked  at  Dorothy,  Fenella  would  have  marked 
a  blush,  a  flaming  crimson  wave  which  flowed  and  ebbed 
upon  Miss  Dacre's  cheeks. 

"Is  not  that  a  good  face?"  she  repeated. 

"Yes,"  rephed  Dorothy  quickly:  "an  admirable  face — a 
face  one  could  never  forget.  Did — did  Lord  Ven  give  it 
to  you,  dear?" 

"Lord  Ven?" 

"I  met  him  a  few  weeks  ago ;  we  travelled  together  from 
Waterloo  to  Salisbury,  on  a  Saturday,  seven  weeks  ago." 
Fenella  smiled:  dates  are  not  always  remembered.  "This" 
—Dorothy  looked  very  tenderly  at  the  portrait — "does  not 
flatter  him  a  bit;  he  has  a  better  face.  ...  Eh?  What? 
Not  Lord  Ven  at  all !    Who — who  is  it  ?" 

The  girls  were  standing  facing  each  other. 
"The  man,"  replied  Fenella,  "for  whom  you  say  I  am 
142 


Fehella's  Bounder 

eating  my  heart  out;  the  man  to  whom  I  was  engaged: 
George " 

"No,  no ;  it  can't  be.    It  is  the  man  I  travelled  with." 

"Lord  Ven  has  been  shooting  in  Somaliland  for  the  last 
ten  months.  He  is  small,  dark,  almost  bald,  and  stam- 
mers." 

"  *Small,    dark,    bald,    and    stammers,' "    repeated    Miss 

Dacre.     "Why,  you  have  described  exactly  your  own 

Good  heavens !  I  see  it  all.  The  two  men  were  introduced 
to  me  at  the  same  time  and  place  and  I  confounded  their 
names.    Then  I  did  travel  with  your " 

"With  George,"  said  Fenella  coldly.  "He  came  here  just 
seven  weeks  ago  last  Saturday." 

"Then  he  is  a  bounder,"  cried  Dorothy  fiercely;  "he 
passed  himself  off  to  me  as  Lord  Ven.  Only  a  rank  out- 
sider would  have  done  that." 

*T  don't  believe  it,"  said  Fenella. 

Dorothy  sat  down.  She  was  innately  and  by  careful 
training  an  honest  girl.  How  had  this  blunder  arisen? 
Word  by  word  the  truth  came  home  to  her,  bringing  shame, 
perplexity,  and  remorse. 

"Is  it  true,"  she  demanded,  "that  he  broke  the  engage- 
ment ?  It  is  ?  Do  you  think  he  learned  to  care — for  some- 
body else?" 

"I  will  show  you  his  letter  to  me,"  said  Fenella. 

Dorothy  read  it  and  re-read  it,  sighing. 

"You  called  me  a  fool  just  now,"  said  Fenella.  "Per- 
haps I  am  a  fool,  but  I  have  always  been  greatly  affected 
by  certain  things — my — my  ideals,  in  short.  I  fell  in  love 
with  George  because  of  all  the  men  I  had  met  he  was  the 
most  honest  and  unselfish.  I  was  tired — tired  of  the  men 
cut  to  pattern — the  men  like,  yes,  Hke  poor  Melthorpe.  We 
are  brother  and  sister,  we  have  lived  together ;  but  I  do  not 
know  him,  he  does  not  know  me.     He  is  a  marquess,  not 

143 


Some  Happenings 

a  man.  I  cannot  tell  you  what  the  man  thinks  upon  any 
subject  of  current  interest.  On  everything,  around  every- 
thing, is  his  coronet.  You  understand?  Even  I,  his  sister, 
cannot  say  what  he  is,  only  what  he  represents;  and  he  is 
representative  of  much  that  I  hold  dear.  Now  Melthorpe 
and  his  friends  are  always  computing,  at  compound  inter- 
est, how  much  the  world  owes  them,  and  how  much  they 
owe  themselves;  it  does  not  enter  into  their  heads  to  try 
and  compute  what  they  owe  others.  Melthorpe  is  a  good 
landlord.  Yes;  vv^hy?  Because  it  is  a  tradition  of  our 
house.  Does  he  concern  himself  with  the  welfare  of  one 
single  soul  off  his  estates  ?  Not  he !  He  is  strictly  honour- 
able, refined,  cultured,  polite, — why  shouldn't  he  be?  And 
his  friends  are  like  him — Laodiceans,  all  of  them.  Hot — 
yes;  for  the  pleasures  of  Hfe,  but  lukewarm  in  regard  to  its 
pains.  Now,  George  was  utterly  different:  he  was  keen 
about  sport,  far  keener  than  Melthorpe,  but  he  was  always 
sacrificing  his  hunting  and  shooting  because — because  others 
had  claims  upon  his  time  and  money.  And  he  did  uncon- 
ventional things,  not  caring  a  farthing  for  appearances. 
He  did  cut  a  poor  figure  before  our  world,  but  I  should 
like  to  have  the  recording  angel's  opinion  of  him.  And 
then — and  then " 

"Yes,  Fin." 

**He  changed,"  she  continued;  and  the  pathetic  droop  in 
her  tender  voice  brought  tears  to  Dorothy's  eyes.  "He 
changed.  He  came  here  after  Goodwood,  and  I  could  see 
that  he  was  beginning  to  think  of  himself.  He  took  Mel- 
thorpe as  his  model — Melthorpe,  who  is  the  child  of  the 
centuries !  He  proved  himself  to  be  what  Melthorpe  had 
called  him — a  bounder.  He  made  it  plain  to  me — me,  the 
woman  who  loved  him — think  of  it! — that  I  had  chosen  an 
ape.  And  when  he  realised  what  he  had  done,  he  wrote 
that  letter  and  went  away.  I  let  him  go  without  a  word." 
144 


Fenella's  Bounder 

She  covered  her  face,  so  that  the  other  might  not  see  her 
quivering  lips  and  wet  eyes.  And  as  she  sat  in  silence, 
hopeless  and  forlorn,  a  great  temptation  came  to  the  woman 
at  her  side.  Dorothy  had  listened  eagerly  to  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  man  whose  portrait  lay  in  her  hand.  Every 
spoken  word  echoed  in  her  own  heart.  She  had  told  none 
of  that  too  brief  journey  from  Waterloo  to  Salisbury;  the 
name  of  the  man  had  not  passed  her  lips.  But  his  face, 
the  tones  of  his  voice,  his  virile  gestures,  his  kind  laugh, 
had  Hngered  in  her  memory.  She  had  plunged  a  knife  into 
him,  and  he  had  not  winced.  And  who  knew  better  than 
she  what  salve  to  apply  to  the  wound  she  had  made? 
Sooner  or  later  they  must  meet.  And  if  she  kept  her  coun- 
sel now,  then  she  might  speak.  If  she  spoke  now,  silence 
must  be  her  portion  hereafter. 

"I  am  glad  you  rode  fast  and  straight  at  your  fence,"  she 
heard  Fenella  say.  *'It  is  a  comfort  to  me  that  you  are 
on  my  side  of  it." 

Fast  and  straight! 

"It  is  easy  to  ride  straight,"  said  poor  Dorothy,  with  a 
sob  in  her  throat.  "Listen,  Fin.  I  am  responsible  for  this 
trouble.  I  poured  henbane  into  his  ears.  Yes,  dear,  you 
are  a  fool;  only  the  unloved  are  wise.  Why,  don't  you 
see  that  he  went  away  because  he  tried  to  perform  a  miracle, 
and  failed?  He  became  an  ape  to  please,  not  himself,  but 
you.  And  he  read  and  misinterpreted  the  disgust  in  your 
eyes.  The  poor  fellow  thought  you  were  angry  because 
he  had  failed ;  you  were  heartsick  because  you  thought  he 
had  succeeded.  And  I — I,  do  you  hear? — told  him  that 
you  would  like  him  cut  to  pattern.  I  told  him  to  his  face 
that  he  was  a  bounder.  I  told  him,  thinking  of  course  that 
he  was  Lord  Ven,  that  you  were  making  a  hideous  blunder. 
And  all  the  time  I  was  making  the  blunder.  I  changed  his 
point  of  view,  you   see,   or   rather   obscured   it,   and  that 

145 


Some  Happenings 

changed  his  character.  And  when  he  found  out  that  I  was 
your  cousin,  I've  no  doubt  that  he  jumped  to  the  conclusion 
that  you  felt  as  I  did.  And  you  don't ;  and  nor  do  I  now. 
You  want  him  as  he  is.  Well,  you  must  write  to  him  to- 
morrow." 

Fenella  laughed. 

"To-night,"  she  said. 

Dorothy  kissed  her.  As  she  was  crossing  the  corridor 
which  led  to  her  room,  she  met  the  marquess,  candlestick  in 
hand,  interrogation  on  his  brow. 

''You  have  been  speaking  to  Fin  ?"  he  observed ;  then  he 
marked  her  heightened  colour  and  the  shadows  in  her  eyes. 
*1  fear,"  he  added  politely,  ''that  the  result  has  not — er — 
justified  our  expectations." 

"It  has  surpassed  mine.     She  is  writing  to  her  lover." 

"What?.    The  Bounder?" 

"Yes,"  she  sighed,  "the  Bounder.  I  wish,  Melthorpe,  that 
Heaven  would  send  me  just  such  another — bounder." 


146 


IX 


A    CUTLET    FOR    A    CUTLET 


THE  Major  lived  with  Mrs.  Bowser  at  Dinard  in  the 
charming  Villa  Miraflores,  which  overlooks  the  Bay  of 
Saint  Malo.  Everybody  and  his  wife — particularly  the 
wife — knew  that  the  Villa  and  all  it  contained  belonged 
to  Mrs.  Bowser,  for  she  made  a  point  of  imparting  this  in- 
formation to  them.  The  wags  at  the  club  said  that  Euphro- 
nia  allowed  her  Digby  a  glass  of  port  after  dinner  and  a 
shilling  a  day  for  menus  plaisirs! 

Some  seasons  ago,  a  shocking  story  circulated,  the  Major, 
it  was  whispered,  eked  out  his  meagre  allowance  by  looting 
the  offertory  bag  which  he  was  privileged  to  carry  round 
each  Sunday  in  the  English  church.  This  of  course,  was 
a  canard,  greedily  gobbled  up  at  the  time,  because  Dinard 
is  a  place  where  appetite  for  such  fare  never  fails  nor  flags. 
Moreover,  the  Major's  personal  appearance  lent  a  pinch 
of  salt  to  the  dish.  He  had  an  air — a  subdued  air — of,  let 
us  say,  a  middle-aged  Claude  Duval.  At  the  club  he  told 
stories — not  intended  for  the  young.  These  encarmined 
tales  and  a  florid  complexion  justified  his  nickname — The 
Pink  'Un!  And  yet,  let  the  truth  be  told  in  the  words  of 
Dinard's  greatest  lady :  *'Digby  Bowser,"  said  the  dame,  "is 
a  domestic  fowl,  but  he  would  describe  himself  as  a  bit  of  a 
bird."  He  had  served  in  the  Crashers,  he  had  owned  a  use- 
ful ''plater"  or  two,  he  had  been  aide-de-camp  to  a  Prince 
of  the  Blood. 

"I   have   lived   my   life,"   he   would   murmur   modestly. 

147 


Some  Happenings 

*'Why,  the  Duke  himself  once  said  to  me:  'Digby,  my  boy, 
you've  had  your  innings !'  And  he  knew/'  Here  the  Major 
would  wink  wickedly  and  drink  the  whisky-and-potass 
which  a  sympathetic  listener  would  be  sure  to  offer  him. 
He  numbered  amongst  his  acquaintance  many  personages, 
but  he  had  the  wit  to  keep  these  trump  cards,  so  to  speak, 
up  his  sleeve.  A  man  at  the  club  reading  his  Galignani 
would  suddenly  look  up  and  say :  ''The  Marquess  of  Drum- 
tochty  is  dead.  Did  you  know  him,  Major?"  Then  the 
Major  would  dash  down  his  paper,  as  if  he  had  not  seen 
the  paragraph — the  sly  old  sinner ! — and  exclaim :  "Bless 
my  soul !  You  don't  say  so.  Dear  old  Shortbread !  One 
of  the  very  best.  Why,  years  and  years  ago,  when  I  was 
stalking  with  him  at  Sauchiehall,  he  and  I — no,  no,  I  can't 
tell  you  fellows  that  story.  Gone,  is  he?  And  I'm  here! 
Thanks,  no — not  a  drop.  I'll  take  a  turn  outside."  Then 
the  young  gentlemen  of  the  club  would  shake  their  heads 
and  murmur  to  each  other :  "The  Pink  'Un  is  really  cut 
up,  isn't  he?  I  say,  you  know,  the  Villa  Miraflores  is  a 
snug  little  box,  but  after  Sauchiehall — eh?  Poor  old 
chap !" 

It  must  be  mentioned  here  that  Mrs.  Bowser  was  the  only 
daughter  and  heiress  of  an  evangelical  distiller  of  spirits. 
The  Major,  shortly  after  his  retirement  from  the  Crashers, 
wooed  and  won  her,  but  it  must  not  be  rashly  inferred  that 
the  gallant  warrior,  although  susceptible  to  beauty,  had 
married  for  love  alone.  His  Euphronia  had  been  a  belle  at 
Northsea  and  was  still  a  fine  woman.  None  the  less,  a 
Bowser  would  have  sought  his  mate  in  county  rather  than 
urban  or  suburban  society  had  he  been  financially  able  to  do 
so.  The  Bowsers  of  Topping-Bowser  (the  Major's  near 
relations)  knew  nobody  in  Northsea,  although  Topping- 
Bowser  is  within  a  drive  of  that  much-advertised  water- 
ing-place ;  and  they  were  not  "nice"  to  Euphronia  after  she 
148 


A  Cutlet  for  a  Cutlet 

married  poor  Digby.  It  was  partly  on  account  of  this,  part- 
ly also  because  she  had  a  troublesome  asthma,  and  partly 
because  a  franc  at  Dinard  goes  farther  than  a  shilling  at 
Northsea,  that  the  Bowsers  settled  in  Brittany.  Again, 
at  Dinard,  Mrs.  Digby  Bowser  became  a  personage,  and 
the  ex-major  of  cavalry  a  mere  appanage,  which  plainly 
proves  that  the  strong  (the  Major  was  a  fine,  handsome  fel- 
low) do  not  always  retain  the  spoil,  and  that  virtue  may  not 
only  bring,  but  keep,  its  own  reward ! 

One  pleasant  morning,  at  the  beginning  of  July,  the  Ma- 
jor sauntered  into  the  club.  A  suppressed  murmur  of  ex- 
citement swelled  into  articulate  speech  as  the  hall-porter 
handed  him  his  letters.  Conspicuous  on  the  top  of  the  pile 
was  a  square  white  envelope  with  a  cipher,  surmounted  by 
a  small  crown,  plainly  engraved  upon  its  flap. 

''Billet  doux  from  Her  Royal  Highness !"  said  one  of 
the  wags. 

The  Major  opened  his  letter  and  adjusted  his  eyeglass. 

"By  Jove !"  he  exclaimed. 

"What's  up?"  burst  from  a  dozen  lips. 

"The  Duke,"  replied  the  Major,  with  dignity,  "is  think- 
ing of  spending  a  fortnight  here — incog.  The  Duchess  and 
the  children  will  accompany  him.  I  am  asked  to  find  a 
suitable  house.  Hang  it! — I  don't  know  of  one.  Dear, 
dear!" 

"Let  him  have  yours,"  suggested  a  friend.  "I  dare  say 
Mrs.  Bowser  who  is  the  most  loyal  lady  of  my  acquain- 
tance, would  be  glad  of  the  privilege  of  serving  one  who 
is  of  near  kin  to  her  Sovereign.  She  might  pay  a  visit  or 
two.  You,  old  chap,  would  stay  here,  of  course,  and  be- 
come extra  aide.    It  might  lead  to  another  appointment." 

The  Major  stroked  his  smoothly  shaven  pink  chin  and 
smiled  enigmatically. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  was  asking  Justine,  his  wife's  maid, 

149 


Some  Happenings 

to  take  his  compliments  to  Madame.  He  wished  to  see  her 
at  once  on  a  matter  of  importance.  While  he  waited  for  his 
wife,  he  reflected  without  bitterness  that  she  would  be  sure 
to  finish  some  trivial  task  before  she  answered  his  sum- 
mons. In  this,  however,  he  was  mistaken.  His  Euphronia 
appeared  at  once,  simmering  with  interrogation.  The  Ma- 
jor handed  her  his  letter. 

"And  you've  come  up  here  to  show  me  this,"  she  said 
contemptuously.  *'What  have  I  to  do  with  your  fine  friends, 
who  were  always  too  fine  to  know  me?" 

The  Major  winced  slightly. 

"I  thought,"  he  said  mildly,  "that  we  might  offer  them 
this  house.    It  would  be  worth  while." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

He  shrugged  his  shapely  shoulders,  reflecting  that  his 
Euphronia  wanted  things  explained. 

"There  would  be  a  cheque,"  he  replied  slowly,  "a  substan- 
tial cheque." 

"As  if  I  was  thinking  of  that,"  said  Euphronia  loftily. 

"And  next  June  we  might  shoot  our  cards  at  Middlesex 
House.     You're  such  a  loyal  woman." 

Euphronia's  features  slightly  relaxed. 

"But  where  should  we  go  to,  Digby?" 

"You  have  not  seen  your  Uncle  Fowler  for  some  time." 

"Ah !  you  want  to  get  rid  of  me.  The  Duke  will  be  glad 
to  see  you,  but  will  the  Duchess  pay  me  any  attention  if  I 
stay  here?" 

"She  will  be  civil,"  said  the  Major  vaguely.  "You  might 
go  to  Dinan — Charlotte  Duffy  would  be  delighted  to  put 
you  up." 

She  eyed  him  maliciously. 

"Charlotte  Duffy  will  be  delighted  to  put  us  both  up. 
That  is  a  capital  suggestion  of  yours,  Digby.  We  will  go 
to  Dinan.    No,  don't  say  a  word !    I'm  not  going  to  twiddle 

150 


A  Cutlet  for  a  Cutlet 

my  thumbs  alone  while  you're  hobnobbing  with  princes  and 
princesses.  As  for  my  loyalty,  I  hope  the  Duke  will  realise 
that  it  is  not  everybody  who  would  give  up  such  a  house 
as  this  to  go  and  stay  with  Charlotte  Duffy.  Make  it  plain 
that  we  offer  the  villa — freely.  Only  where  I  go,  you  go 
too.     I'm  too  busy  to  stand  chattering  here  any  longer." 

The  Major  lit  a  cigarette  and  returned  to  the  club — de- 
feated. 

Within  a  few  days  all  Dinard  knew  that  the  Digby  Bow- 
sers had  given  up  the  Miraflores  to  His  Royal  Highness, 
who  would  be  known,  during  the  fortnight  he  spent  in  Brit- 
tany, as  the  Earl  of  Middlesex.  In  the  general  excitement 
the  fact  that  the  Bowsers  were  going  to  Dinan  escaped 
comment.  When  they  had  gone,  the  more  knowing  ones 
at  the  club  expressed  their  pity  for  the  Major. 

'This  must  be  a  pill  for  him,"  said  they.  "He'll  be 
wretched  at  Dinan.  It's  deuced  hard  lines  on  him — and 
on  us" 

From  this  it  may  be  inferred  that  these  gentlemen  were 
counting  upon  the  kind  services  of  one  who  had  been  aide- 
de-camp  and  friend  to  the  illustrious  visitor. 

But  how  wretched  the  Major  was — an  exile  from  club 
and  Casino  when  those  gardens  of  (to  him)  inexhaustible 
delight  were  in  full  bloom,  none  knew  save  himself,  and 
he  was  too  proud  to  tell ! 

And  at  the  end  of  the  fortnight  the  Bowsers  returned  to 
Dinard.  We  have  Euphronia's  word  for  it  that  the  Villa 
was  in  an  unclean  condition.  As  is  frequently  the  case, 
such  matters  were  left  to  the  people  in  attendance,  who  con- 
tented themselves  with  giving  to  the  servants  instructions 
deliberately  ignored  by  them.  There  was  damage,  too,  done 
to  the  furniture.  The  Major,  returning  depressed  from  the 
club — where,  you  may  be  sure,  he  had  listened  patiently  to 
a  long  recital  of  what  had  taken  place  during  his  absence 

151 


Some  Happenings 

— found  his  Euphronia  very  red  in  the  face,  with  a  silk 
bandanna  tightly  twisted  round  her  head — a  tournure  al- 
ways associated  (and  not  agreebly)  in  the  Major's  mind 
with  spring  cleanings. 

"While  you've  been  enjoying  yourself,  Digby,"  she  be- 
gan, "I've  been  going  over  this  house.  The  top  of  the  piano 
looks  as  if  hens  had  been  scratching  on  it,  a  castor  is  off 
your  arm-chair " 

"It  has  been  off  for  three  months,  my  love." 

''Don't  call  me  your  love.  I  detest  hypocrisy.  You  know 
well,  Digby  Bowser,  that  such  love  as  you  had  to  give  was 
squandered,  like  everything  else  you  possessed,  before  we 
met.  Two  of  the  dessert-plates  are  chipped,  a  dozen  wine- 
glasses are  broken,  and  the  jug  in  the  spare  room — the  wil- 
low pattern  one,  which  belonged  to  poor  grandma — has  lost 
its  handle.  The  silver  photograph-frame  with  Uncle  Fow- 
ler in  it  is  missing  altogether." 

'T  dare  say  they  locked  it  up,"  suggested  the  Major. 
''Your  uncle,  Euphronia,  is  not — er — decorative." 

'T  thought  you  would  insult  me.  This  is  what  comes 
of  trying  to  be  kind  and  obliging  to  your  friends." 

"The  cheque,  my  dear,  will  cover  these  trifling  losses." 

"There  you  go  again !  You  talk  as  if  I  cared  for  nothing 
but  money.    Is  there  a  cheque  ?" 

"It  has  not  come  yet,"  replied  her  husband. 

"When  will  it  come?" 

"Within  a  week,  probably." 

A  week  passed.  Meantime,  Mrs.  Bowser  had  sipped  the 
nectar  of  popularity.  She  found  herself  an  honoured  guest 
at  luncheons,  dinners,  and  teas ;  and  wherever  she  went  she 
took  with  her  an  autograph  letter  from  the  Duchess,  which 
was  duly  read  aloud  to  a  select  few.  Observant  persons 
remarked  that  Mrs.  Bowser  was  understudying  the  great 
lady  who  had  played  hostess  at  Miraflor^es.  Some  young 
152 


A  Cutlet  for  a  Cutlet 

American  girls  entreated  her  to  give  them  a  few  feathers 
from  the  pillow  upon  which  the  daughter  of  an  emperor  had 
laid  her  august  head.  A  gentleman  connected  with  the 
Press,  camera  in  hand,  sought  an  interview  with  Lady 
Bowser — and  was  not  sent  empty  away.  It  was  rumoured 
that  a  phial  of  nitro-glycerine,  enough  to  blow  Dinard  all 
the  way  to  Dinan,  was  found  in  the  cellar  side  by  side  with 
the  sparkling  Moselle  which  Euphronia  said  was  much  more 
wholesome  and  nice  than  champagne. 

*'I  think  they  were  comfortable,"  Mrs.  Bowser  observed 
to  the  ladies  who  came  to  the  Miraflores  as  if  it  were  some 
sacred  shrine.  "And  I  was  so  happy  to  oblige  the  dear 
Duchess.  One  naturally  is,  you  know.  And  her  letter  quite 
compensated  me  for  any  little  damage  that  was  done.  So 
very — ky — ind !  Really,  if  that  absurd  story  about  the  nitro- 
glycerine had  proved  true,  one  wouldn't  have  minded  much. 
I  can  quite  understand  now  how  the  cavaliers  felt  when 
they  went  to  the  block?  Eh?  I  beg  your  pardon.  Just 
between  ourselves,  you  say?  Well,  I  give  you  my  word 
there  was  no  mention  of  such  a  thing.  We  offered  the  villa 
freely,  and  I  trust  it  was  taken  in  the  same  spirit.  .  .  ." 

"And  yet,  each  day,  after  the  English  mail  was  in,  Eu- 
phronia would  ask  the  Major:  "Has  the  cheque  come, 
Digby?"  And  each  day  the  Major  would  reply:  "I  have 
no  cheque  for  you,  my  dear." 

At  the  end  of  the  month  it  seemed  certain  that  the  cheque 
would  not  come  at  all.  Mrs.  Bowser  suggested  to  her  Dig- 
by  the  propriety  of  writing  a  line  to  one  of  the  equerries. 
This  the  Major  flatly  refused  to  do. 

"After  all,"  said  he,  ''you  have  been  paid  indirectly.  You 
are  the  uncrowned  queen  of  Dinard." 

''Fiddlesticks !"  said  Mrs.  Bowser. 

**And  that  reminds  me,"  he  continued  rather  nervously; 
"don't  you  think  we  ought  to  make  some  return  for  all  these 

153 


Some  Happenings 

entertainments?  A  dinner,  or  a  dance,  or — er — both.  A 
cutlet  for  a  cutlet,  you  know." 

**A  dinner !  A  dance !  You  have  such  extravagant  ideas, 
Digby.  If  that  cheque  comes,  I  may  give  a — tea.  You  told 
me  there  would  be  a  cheque,  a  substantial  cheque.  The 
truth  is,  we've  been  most  outrageously " 

''Shush— h—h !"  said  the  Major.  'T'm  hanged  if  I'll  ask 
for  money  in  payment  for  what  you  offered  freely  as  a  gift! 
And  that  autograph  letter — and  Middlesex  House  next  June 
— and — er " 

''Stop!  I  am  going  to  tear  up  that  hateful  letter,  and 
I  shall  throw  the  pieces,"  she  continued  violently,  "into  the 
waste-paper  basket,  where  I  found  poor  Uncle  Fowler. 
And  as  for  princes  and  princesses,  I  shall  never  put  my 
trust  in  them  again.  You  needn't  speak,  Digby.  In  my 
own  house  I  may  surely  be  allowed  once  in  a  while  to  get 
in  a  word  edgeways.  We  have  been  outrageously  swindled 
— there!  And  don't  you  ever  ask  me  to  call  at  Middlesex 
House.  You'll  be  ordering  me,  some  day,  I  suppose,  to 
leave  my  cards  upon  forgers  and  murderers  at  Newgate !" 

The  Major  retreated  to  his  club. 

Next  day,  however,  he  said  a  last  word :  "My  dear,  you 
will  be  careful,  I'm  sure,  not  to  mention  this  matter  of  the 
cheque  to  any  of  our  friends.  They  would  be  sure  to  laugh 
at  us  and  make  remarks.  It  is  not  necessary  to  say  this  to 
you,  but " 

"Then  why  do  you  say  it?"  snapped  the  lady.  "I  shall 
certainly  not  give  our  friends  the  pleasure  of  making  un- 
kind remarks  about  me,  and  I  only  hope  and  pray  that 
you'll  be  as  careful  at  the  club." 

"Mum's  the  word  for  both  of  us,"  said  the  Major,  as  he 
went  his  way. 

That  particular  season  at  Dinard  set  in  a  sunset  blaze 
of  entertainments.  The  Major  said  that  he  had  never  known 
154 


A  Cutlet  for  a  Cutlet 

a  livelier  September,  and  almost  forgot  that  he  had  lost 
two  precious  weeks  in  July.  At  all  the  picnics,  breakfasts, 
dinners,  and  suppers  the  good  fellow  worked  as  hard  as 
the  youngest  and  strongest,  using  the  same  tools — a  knife 
and  fork.  Mrs.  Bowser,  however,  remained  at  home.  It 
seemed  to  her  un-Christian  that  people  should  eat  and 
drink  and  make  merry  when  she  had  been  defrauded  of  a 
hundred  pounds.  She  had  learned  that  her  late  tenants  had 
paid  this  sum  the  year  before  for  somewhat  similar  accom- 
modation at  Trouville.  Dinard  managed  to  enjoy  itself 
without  her,  and  agreed  that  the  ]\Iajor  was  the  hfe  and 
soul  of  every  party — one  of  the  first  to  come,  one  of  the 
last  to  leave,  and  always  gay  and  debonair.  None  the  less, 
it  was  whispered  behind  his  back  that  the  Bowsers  ought 
to  do  something.  Since  the  return  from  Dinan  no  hospital- 
ity had  been  dispensed  at  the  ^liraflores.  The  sparkling 
Moselle  sparkled  in  the  darkness  of  the  cellar.  Not  a  single 
bottle  was  uncorked !  Judge,  then,  with  what  surprise  Din- 
ard received  invitations  from  Major  and  Mrs.  Bowser  to 
dine  and  dance  with  them — at  the  club. 

"Why  at  the  club?"  asked  a  pal  of  the  Major. 

"Because,"  said  the  -Major,  ''this  time,  my  boy,  you  are 
dining  with  me,  not  with  ^Madame." 

Those  who  know  their  Dinard  will  predict  that  within 
three  hours  most  of  the  men  and  all  of  the  women  were 
telling  each  other  that  the  Major  had  come  into  Topping- 
Bowser  and  seven  thousand  a  year.  But  none  received  a 
card  of  invitation  with  greater  amazement  than  ]\Irs. 
Bowser. 

''What  is  the  meaning  of  this,  Digby?"  she  asked.  '"You 
have  included  my  name,  I  see ;  but  you  are  not  such  a  ninny 
as  to  think  that  I  am  going  to  pay  the  bill !" 

"I  am  not  such  an — er — optimist  as  that,"  the  Major  re- 
plied blandly. 

155 


Some  Happenings 

'Then  where  does  the  money  come  from?" 

"My  dear/'  the  Major  repHed  with  dignity,  "when  you 
see  fit  to  honour  me  with  your  confidence  in  regard  to  your 
financial  arrangements,  I  shall  be  happy  to  bestow  the  same 
confidence  upon  you  in  return.  For  the  moment,  let  me  say 
that  this  little  entertainment  will  be  paid  for  by  me,  and  that 
for  once  in  my  life  I  hope  to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
you  at  the  head  of  my  own  table." 

"I  shall  certainly  be  there,"  she  hastened  to  assure  him. 
"If,  Digby — if,  my  dear,  you  have  come  into  a — fortune,  I 
hope  you  will  pay  me  that  hundred  pounds  which  I  lost 
through  your  criminally  careless  business  habits." 

The  Major  laughed  heartily 

*'My  dear  Euphronia'  A  fortune!  I  have  been  paid 
a  few  pounds — unexpectedly.     A  debt  of  honour." 

*'And  you  waste  them  on  a  dinner?" 

"Let  us  say  rather  that  I  am  paying  my  debt  of  honour 
in — er — doing  as  I  have  been  done.  Uncommonly  well  have 
my  friends  done  me  this  season.  Well  I  shall  oifer  them 
next  Tuesday  a  little  dinner  which  they  will  appreciate  and 
remember." 

"You  are  not  giving  supper  as  well?" 

**A  sandwich  or  two.  my  dear,  and  a  glass  of  champagne. 
I  must  really  be  allowed  to  have  my  own  way." 

When  the  Tuesday  came,  the  dining-room  of  the  club 
was  transformed  into  a  sort  of  bower  of  roses  and  palms. 
The  young  and  romantic  sat  two  and  two  at  small  tables 
lighted  by  candles  in  pink  petticoat  shades ;  the  Olympians 
were  gathered  together  round  the  main  table.  Of  the  din- 
ner, let  us  admit  frankly  that  it  was  the  crowning  glory 
of  the  best  season  Dinard  had  ever  known.  A  mousse  au 
jambon  made  old  Chutney  break  an  inviolate  rule  never  to 
speak  till  the  savoury  was  handed.  The  surprise  a  la  Bow- 
ser (an  almond  ice  served  with  a  hot  sauce  of  brandy  cher- 
156 


A  Cutlet  for  a  Cutlet 

ries  dropped  into  melted  currant  jelly)  moved  the  greatest 
lady  in  Dinard  to  tears,  because  her  doctor  (who  was  pres- 
ent) peremptorily  forbade  her  to  touch  it !  And,  of  course, 
the  Major  as  host  surpassed  all  records  he  had  established 
as  guest.  He  saw  that  Gill  was  sent  in  with  Jack;  he  lis- 
tened politely  to  the  garrulous  ;  he  prattled  gaily  to  the  mute ; 
he  told  three  new  stories ;  and  he  inspired  old  and  young 
alike  with  his  own  amazing  and  inexhaustible  spirits! 

At  the  head  of  the  big  table  was  Euphronia;  and  at  her 
side  sat  Captain  Saladin,  R.N.,  better  known  as  ''The  Old 
Curiosity  Shop."  As  he  was  the  brother  and  heir  pre- 
sumptive of  an  earl,  good  Christians  were  charitable  enough 
to  overlook  his  defects,  and  to  dwell  rather  upon  his  virtues, 
amongst  which  might  be  numbered  fortitude  in  hearing  of 
the  misfortunes  of  others  and  a  love  of  retailing  the  truth, 
and  even  more  than  the  truth,  concerning  them.  This  gentle- 
man had  not  finished  his  sole  a  la  Normande  before  he  be- 
came aware  that  his  hostess  was  ill  at  ease.  She  had,  in- 
deed, just  made  a  careful  study  of  the  menu,  and  had  learned 
from  the  young  fellow  on  her  right  that  the  supper  was  to 
be  quite  as  soigne  as  the  dinner,  and  that  the  Casino  band 
had  been  engaged. 

"The  Major  is  doin'  us  tip-top,"  said  Saladin,  gobbling 
up  the  last  morsel  of  his  fish.  "Eh — what?  Chateau 
Yquemf  Certainly.  Noble  wine,  my  dear  Mrs.  Bowser, 
particularly  after  the  Graves  which  some  of  our  friends 
give  us — eh?  The  Major  I  hear,  has  not  come  into  Top- 
ping-Bowser, but  he's  bin  backin'  a  winner  or  two — 
wha-a-at?" 

"Digby  never  races — now,"  said  Mrs.  Bowser  sharply. 

"Um !  Egad !  I  have  it !  He's  spendin*  what  you  saved 
at  Dinan.    Not  bad,  that — wha-a-at?" 

"I  didn't  save  anything  at  Dinan,   Captain   Saladin." 

^S7 


Some  Happenings 

The  sub-tinkle  of  irritability  in  her  voice  set  his  curiosity 
a- jangling. 

'*Goin'  to  let  the  Villa  next  year?"  he  demanded,  after  a 
moment's  pause. 

*'It  wasn't  let  this,"   she   replied   with  asperity. 

Captain  Saladin  stared  open-mouthed.  From  his  knowl- 
edge of  the  lady,  this  statement  simply  howled  for  explana- 
tion. 

**You  offered  it,  I  know,"  he  said.  "But  surely  they  did 
the  square  thing — eh?" 

At  this  moment  such  resolutions  as  Mrs.  Bowser  had 
made  concerning  the  propriety  of  holding  her  tongue  were 
despatched  to  their  ultimate  destination.  She  knew  per- 
fectly well  that  what  she  was  about  to  say  would  be  repeat- 
ed, yet  she  spoke  because  she  hoped  that  the  speaking  would 
distress  that  extravagant  wretch  opposite,  the  man  who 
owed  everything  to  his  wife,  and  who  repudiated  those  debts 
when  Fortune  gave  him  an  opportunity  of  discharging  one 
or  two  of  them. 

"The  square  thing  was  not  done.  Captain  Saladin.  Of 
course,  all  my  friends  know  that  I  care  nothing  for  the  sor- 
did part  of  it.    Still — it  is  rather  extraordinary." 

"Quite  amazin',"  assented  the  Captain.  "Beastly  sell,  in 
fact." 

"Pray  don't  mention  it!" 

"You've  bin  treated  shockin'  bad,  Mrs.  Bowser,  but, 
hang  it!  there  must  be  a  mistake  somewhere.  Digby  must 
drop  a  line  to  one  of  the  fellers  in  waitin' — wha-a-at?  He 
won't?  Then  write  yourself,  dear  lady.  It's  the  straight 
tip  I'm  givin'  you." 

"I  will  write,"  she  said  viciously. 

Meanwhile,  the  Major  was  having  his  golden  hour,  and 
he  made  the  most  of  it.  Afterwards,  too,  in  the  ballroom, 
he  danced  with  the  pretty  girls  and  cracked  jokes  with  the 

158 


A  Cutlet  for  a  Cutlet 

plain  ones.  Captain  Saladin  did  not  valse,  but  he  circulated, 
and  wherever  he  went  eyebrows  were  raised  and  voices  low- 
ered. Presently  he  approached  some  one  who  is  known  to 
the  Dinardois  as  the  Universal  Provider,  because  if  you 
want  a  partner  for  a  dance,  or  a  dozen  of  wine,  or  a  word 
of  sound  advice,  or  a  house,  or  a  yacht,  or  a  pound  of  tea, 
he's  your  man.  The  Captain  whispered  a  few  sentences, 
and  the  other  started. 

*'Why,  I  ca-c-cash "     He  stopped  abruptly  and  then 

said  quietly:    'There  must  be  a  mistake." 

"Mistake  be  hanged !"  said  the  Captain  warmly.  "I  say, 
if  you  know — anything " 

"I  know  nothing.    Capital  show,  this  ?" 

"RippinM  The  bill  '11  be  a  corker — what-a-at?  I  say  a 
hundred,  at  least.  And  where  the  doose  the  Pink  'Un  got 
the  oof  from  beats  me.    Not  from  his  missus,  I'll  swear." 

He  moved  away;  and  soon  after  the  Universal  Provider 
sought  and  found  an  opportunity  to  lead  his  host  aside.  The 
Major  was  pink  as  usual  when  his  companion  began  to 
speak ;  he  was  scarlet  before  he  had  finished. 

''Saladin  has  told  everybody  in  the  room,  you  say?" 

"I  should  be  doing  him  a  gross  injustice  if  I  doubted  it." 

"And  he  took  my  wife  in  to  dinner.  Just  so.  My  dear 
fellow,  will  you  do  me  a  favour? — Propose  my  health — 
and  my  wife's — at  supper,  and  call  on  me  for  a  speech." 

"Right !" 

Accordingly  at  supper — a  scrumptious  supper — the  health 
of  host  and  hostess  was  drunk  with  all  honour,  and 
the  Major  duly  rose  to  reply. 

"My  dear  friends,"  he  said,  "I  thank  you  warmly,  and 
my  wife  thanks  you  as  warmly,  for  your  good  wishes. 
We  have  been  delightfully  entertained  this  season  by  many 
present,  and  we  venture  to  hope  that  these  guests  in  par- 
ticular have  had  a  good  time  to-night."    (Shouts  of  "Yes!" 

159 


Some  Happenings 

"You  bet!"  "Well  played,  Pink  'Un!"  and  so  forth.)  The 
Major  smiled  cheerily  and  continued:  "Speaking  for  my 
wife,  I  may  say  frankly  that  she  thoroughly  appreciated 
your  kindness  to  her  after  our  return  from  Dinan.  We 
had  both  missed  a  great  deal  of  fun,  but,  as  my  wife  put 
it,  we  were  honoured,  inasmuch  as  we  had  been  able  to 
serve  a  near  kinsman  of  our  gracious  Sovereign.  We 
offered  our  home  freely,  and  freely  it  was  accepted.  In 
return,  my  wife  received  a  very  precious  reward — an 
autograph  letter,  which  some  of  you  have  had  the  privi- 
lege of  reading.  I  was  sent  a — cheque.  That  cheque  I 
did  not  quite  know  what  to  do  with !  My  wife,  I  was  as- 
sured, would  deem  it  churlish  to  return  it,  yet  she  had  re- 
ceived herself,  as  she  has  told  you,  more  than  payment  in 
full  for  what  inconvenience  she  suffered.  But  I  had  noth- 
ing. And  so,  after  mature  thought,  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
cash  the  cheque,  and  in  my  wife's  name  and  my  own  to  de- 
vote the  proceeds  to — er — the  purposes  for  which  we  have 
assembled  together  this  evening.  I  venture  to  hope  that 
what  I  have  done  has  been  a  pleasant  surprise  to  you — 
and  to  my  wife." 

The  Major  sat  down  as  some  convivial  spirited  started 
the  song,  "For  he's  a  jolly  good  fellow!"  After  supper, 
Mrs.  Bowser  pleaded  indisposition  and  withdrew.  The 
Major  remained,  gay  and  genial,  till  the  last  guest  had 
departed.  Then  he  returned  to  the  Villa  Miraflores,  smil- 
ing blandly;  but  he  was  heard  to  whistle  nervously  as  he 
ascended  the  stairs  which  led  to  the  room  where  his 
Euphronia  was  awaiting  him. 


i6o 


X 

THE   WAITRESS   AT   SANTY 


THE  land  boom  struck  Santy  like  a  ninety-mile-an-hour 
cyclone.  It  came;  it  went.  What  had  been  a  tiny 
hamlet  with  a  long  unpronounceable  Spanish  name — 
shortened  into  Santy  by  the  cattlemen — became  a  collection 
of  the  worst-looking  board-and-batten  shacks  between 
Shasta  and  San  Biego.  Magnolia  Avenue,  with  never  a 
Magnolia  on  it,  exhibited  a  ridiculous  schoolhouse,  cold 
in  winter  and  hot  in  summer,  a  church,  a  parsonage,  two 
hotels,  and  half  a  dozen  saloons.  After  the  epidemic, 
when  values  fell  headlong,  most  of  these  buildings  were 
empty.  One  hotel,  the  Grand,  kept  open,  because  the  fine 
white  dust  of  the  foothills  makes  cattlemen  and  sheepmen 
abnormally  thirsty. 

The  Grand  was  run  by  an  ex-faro  dealer  and  general 
all-round  sport.  I  have  forgotten  his  patronymic,  but  we 
called  him  Nosey,  not  without  reason.  He  mixed  amazing 
cocktails  out  of  whisky  which  was  judiciously  blended  by 
himself  down  cellar.  Nosey  tended  his  own  bar,  played 
cards,  cut  hair,  and  was  the  tallest  talker  in  the  county. 

"I'm  a  liar,  and  proud  of  it,"  he  would  say. 

We  sat  at  the  feet  of  this  Gamaliel  and  absorbed  his 
cocktails  and  conversation.  The  odds  were  ten  to  one — 
and  no  takers — that  Nosey  could  out-talk  any  man  in  our 
crowd.  We  admitted  frankly  that  he  had  ideas.  The 
particular  idea  of  advertising  for  a  waitress  was  his. 

i6i 


,  Some  Happenings 

"I'm  going  behind,"  he  told  us.  "Vm  losin'  big  money, 
boys." 

"Where  you  steal  it?"  asked  Bud  Norcross. 

Nosey  sighed. 

"I  stole  it  right  enough.  I  mind  me  when  I  held  up 
single-handed  the  San  Clemente  stage,  and  got  away  with 
fifty  thousand  in  Treasury  Bills." 

Nobody  believed  this.  So  far  as  our  limited  experience 
went  Nosey  was  reasonably  honest.     Nosey  continued: 

"I  bought  a  pearl  necklace  with  that  bunch  o'  bills — a 
necklace,  boys,  which  one  o'  the  star-spangled  Queens  o' 
Song  wears  night  and  day." 

''You  must  ha'  made  a  hit  with  Her  Majesty?" 

*'I  did.  But  I  hed  ter  give  her  the  cold  chuck.  No  man 
gits  so  fed  up  with  wimmenfolk  as  I  do.  The  best  of  'em 
kinder  sour  on  me.  But  wimmen,  boys,  has  their  uses. 
Slingin'  hash  now !" 

We  waited  expectantly.  Nosey  pulled  a  paper  from 
behind  the  bar. 

"You  seen  this  advertisement?    It's  a  danty." 

"Yours,  Nosey?" 

"Mine,  my  son.  Listen :  "Wanted  immediate,  a  young, 
spry,  good-looking  Waitress  for  first-class  hotel  in  the 
country.'  Wal,  boys,  I  hate  to  stick  a  surprise  into  ye,  but 
she's  doo  ter-day." 

Bud  breasted  the  bar. 

"This  is  mine.  We'll  drink  the  lady's  health  right  now. 
Come  on  up,  all  of  ye." 

The  San  Lorenzo  stage  rolled  into  Santy  about  an  hour 
later.  By  that  time  the  health  of  the  young-spry-good- 
looking  waitress  had  been  drunk  with  enthusiasm  thrice. 
None  of  us,  however,  believed  in  the  adjectives;  but  we 
were  thrilled  at  the  advent  of  any  stranger  in  petticoats. 
Santy  boasted  a  schoolma'am  of  years  as  uncertain  as  her 
162 


The  Waitress  at  Santy 

temper.  She  handled  her  scholars  masterfully  and  was  a 
solid  pillar  of  the  County  Temperance  Association.  Our 
cattle  ponies  shied  at  the  sight  of  her.  Some  of  the  land 
boom  settlers  had  brought  wives  and  daughters  to  the 
foothills.  Call  them  poor  white  trash,  and  have  done 
with  it.  As  Bud  put  it,  the  Santy  stage  was  set  for  a  star, 
and  the  question  obtruded  itself — did  it  carry  one? 

A  column  of  dust  appeared  in  the  south-east,  and  half  a 
dozen  of  us  lit  cigarettes  as  we  ranged  up  in  front  of  the 
hotel. 

"Anything  fer  me?"  asked  Nosey  of  the  stage-driver. 

*'Inside  passenger,"  replied  the  stage-driver. 

A  tall,  slim  young  woman  got  out,  carrying  a  large 
satchel.  She  wore  a  dust-proof  veil  and  a  long  whitey- 
grey  cloak.     She  addressed  Nosey  in  a  clear  calm  voice: 

'Is  this  the  Grand  Hotel?" 

Nosey  replied  in  the  affirmative.     But  said  hastily: 

*'Lemme  take  yer  grip?" 

Hank  Parkinson  whispered  to  me:     "One  up  on  Bud." 

"Wait,"  said  I. 

Bud's  offer  was  ignored.  Nosey  led  the  way  into  the 
hotel,  and  the  young  woman  followed  in  silence.  Bud 
laughed.    Hank  murmured  reflectively : 

"Whar  did  the  chicken  git  the  axe?" 

We  went  back  to  the  bar.  Presently  Nosey  appeared. 
His  face  indicated  surprise  and  uneasiness.  And  his  voice, 
a  thought  too  loud  for  genteel  society,  sank  to  a  whisper. 

"Boys,"  he  said  solemnly.     "She's  a  peach,  a  winner." 

"What's  she  won.  Nosey?     Your 

"Boys,  I'm  a  liar  if  she  ain't  a  lady — quality!  Wimmen 
is,  and  allers  will  be,  puzzles  to  me,  but  why  she  answered 
my  lettle  'ad'  bangs  Banagher.  Mebbe  I  worded  it  too 
slick.    Wal,  ye'U  see  her  to-morrer." 

We  did 

163 


Some  Happenings 

In  honour  of  the  stranger  we  took  dinner  at  the  Grand. 
Mame — we  were  instructed  to  so  address  her — waited  upon 
us.  She  was  certainly  very  attractive  and  graceful.  And 
her  brown  hair,  so  I  noticed,  was  beautifully  done.  Obvi- 
ously, also,  she  took  care  of  her  hands.  To  all  our  ques- 
tions— we  didn't  ask  many — she  replied  in  monosyllables. 
She  surveyed  us  calmly  and  derisively.  It  was  a  dull  meal. 
Bud,  the  most  enterprising  of  the  company,  made  a  bad 
break. 

"What  price  Santy?"  he  asked  our  handmaiden. 

''It's  quiet,"  she  replied  demurely. 

Bud  winked  at  her. 

"We  kin  whoop  things  up,  if  you  say  so,"  he  assured 
her. 

Mame's  face  remained  impassive.  Her  eyes  rested  for 
a  moment  upon  Bud's  ingenuous  countenance.  To  our 
delight  he  blushed.  Then  she  passed  on,  blandly  indiffer- 
ent. Hank,  who  had  not  read  his  Chauteaubriand,  gave  us 
to  understand  that  the  discomfiture  of  his  friend  was  not 
altogether  displeasing  to  him. 

After  dinner  Nosey  commended  our  table  manners. 

"Barrin'  Bud,"  he  was  kind  enough  to  say,  "ye  behaved 
like  perfect  gen'lemen.  Mame  is  high-toned.  This  ain't 
her  stampin'-ground.  But,  by  Jing!  I  reckon  she  means 
to  take  aholt  and  stay  on.  I  suspicioned  some  that  she'd 
pull  stakes  this  morning.  But  I  was  mistook.  Mebbe  she's 
here  for  her  health." 

Bud  hazarded  another  conjecture. 

"Mebbe  she's  after  a  pearl  necklace." 

Nosey  replied  happily: 

"She's  a  pearl  is  Mame,  and  it's  up  to  me  that  she  don't 
fall  amongst  swine.  Hank,  the  parlour  tricks  you  do  with 
yer  knife  didn't  amuse  her  any.  When  I  seen  Joe  tuck 
164. 


The  Waitress  at  Santy 

his  serviette  into  his  pocket,  I  surmised  that  she  winced. 
Hand  it  over,  son!" 

Joe  produced  the  napkin  and  "set  up"  the  drinks.  Mame 
was  toasted  once  again.  Bud,  who  was  my  smartest  cow- 
boy, rode  back  to  the  ranch  with  me.  He  put  adequately 
into  words  the  question  that  was  biting  me : 

"Say — what  the  hell's  she  doin'  here?" 


II 


A  fortnight  passed.  Being  a  slack  time  on  the  ranch  we 
spent  some  agreeable  hours  in  Santy  at  the  Grand  Hotel. 
One  thing  was  certain.  Mame,  as  waitress,  developed  into 
a  stellar  attraction  of  the  first  magnitude.  She  treated  all 
and  sundry  alike  with  demure  courtesy.  She  took  the  air 
in  the  company  of  the  hotel  cook,  a  melancholy  and  aged 
female.  She  refused  pleasantly  invitations  to  go  "buggy- 
riding."  But  her  reserve,  when  waiting  upon  us,  gradually 
thawed.  Let  it  be  recorded,  also,  that  imperceptibly  she 
raised  the  tone  of  table  talk.  Under  much  provocation 
she  corrected  grammatical  blunders  with  a  smile  that  took 
the  sting  out  of  her  admonitions.  Hank  and  Bud  became 
promising  pupils.  Each  confided  in  me  that  he  was  the 
writhing  victim  of  the  grand  passion.  Bud  broke  out  into 
poetry.  Hank  bought  a  Prince  Albert  coat,  satin-lined. 
I  do  not  affirm  that  Mame  encouraged  the  boys,  but  she 
did  not  discourage  them.  Watching  her  closely,  I  cherished 
the  conviction  that  they  amused  her.  Moreover,  they  kept 
other  aspirants  at  a  distance. 

About  a  week  later.  Nosey  led  me  apart,  and  after 
exacting  a  pledge  of  secrecy  made  an  astounding  announce- 
ment. 

*'Mame  ain't  what  she  appears  ter  be.     For  two  years 

165 


Some  Happenings 

I  run  a  barber  shop  in  Petaluma.  I  hold  the  quick-shavin' 
record ;  shaved  sixty-three  men  under  the  hour,  by  Jing ! 
Yes,  sir,  what  I  don't  know  about  the  barber  business 
could  be  set  down  on  a  dime.     Mame  wears  a  wig." 

"A  wig?" 

"A  wig — one  of  the  best,  too.  Good  wigs  run  into  big 
money.  I  reckon  she  must  hev  two.  Yes'day  I  took  a 
squint  at  her  washin'.  No  frills,  ye  understand,  but  fine 
linen — a  dead  give-away." 

''Meaning?" 

"Mame  is  no  waitress.    She's  in  hidin' — sure!" 

"None  of  our  business." 

"Yer  dead  right.  That's  why  I  told  ye.  I've  bin  in 
hidin',  more'n  onct.  Thar's  bin  big  rewards  offered  fer 
me.  Yes,  sir,  I've  bin  wanted  by  half  a  dozen  sheriffs — 
damn  'em!    The  pint  is — air  they  wantin'  Mame?" 

"Your  'pint,'  Nosey,  is  as  big  as  a  barrel.  Two  men,  I 
know,  are  wanting  Mame — Bud  Norcross  and  Hank  Park- 
inson.   They  want  her  so  badly  that  there  may  be  trouble." 

"Pshaw!    Is  Mame  wanted  by  the  perlice?" 

"Search  me !" 

"It'd  tickle  me  plum  ter  death  ter  fool  the  police.  I've 
half  a  notion  to  give  Mame  a  hint  that  a  way." 

"Don't !  If  she  is  hiding,  she's  chosen  a  snug  place.  A 
hint  from  you  might  scare  her  out  of  it." 

"Mebbe  yer  right." 

After  this  confidential  talk  with  Nosey  I  looked  with 
ever-increasing  interest  and  curiosity  at  our  waitress.  Her 
singular  detachment  had  become  explicable  upon  a 
hypothesis  which  in  itself  seemed  incredible.  The  girl's  eyes 
were  so  honest.  She  carried  a  high  head.  Her  laugh  had 
the  sterling  ring  to  it.  Nosey,  when  I  casually  men- 
tioned these  things  to  him,  pitied  my  ignorance  and  inex- 
perience. 
i66 


The  Waitress  at  Santy 

''When  I  played  cards  fer  a  livin',  and  I  was  a  Jim 
Dandy  at  it,  a  down-and-outer,  what  made  the  suckers 
play  with  me?  My  honest  face,  by  Jing!  Mary's  little 
lamb  an'  me  might  ha'  bin  twins.  Mame's  face  is  her 
fortin,  and  I'm  lookin'  for  her  photygraph  in  the  Police 
Gazette.  If  I  was  twenty  years  younger,  I'd  want  the 
purty  sinner  myself." 

**Bud  and  Hank  would  make  it  lively  for  you." 

'I'd  eat  them  two  galoots  fer  breakfast  and  be  hungry 
agin  by  dinner-time." 

I  returned  to  the  ranch  a  much-worried  man.  During 
two  years  Hank  and  Bud  had  been  devoted  friends;  now 
Mame  stood  between  them.  Santy  was  not  big  enough 
to  hold  my  two  best  cowboys.  They  behaved  like  dogs 
growling  over  a  bone.  On  the  range  they  went  different 
ways.  About  the  barn  and  in  the  house  they  glared  fiercely 
at  each  other.  Each  mocked  the  other,  and  yet  each — 
with  the  colossal  conceit  which  characterises  your  true 
Native  Son  of  the  Golden  West— believed  that  Mame  was 
his  for  the  asking. 

But  they  didn't  ask. 

I  wondered  whether  I  could  breathe  a  warning  word  into 
Mame's  ear.  In  Santy,  she  had  been  the  only  person, 
male  or  female,  who  had  treated  me  consistently  with  a 
rather  chilling  deference.  I  felt  sure  that  my  position 
as  the  owner  of  a  large  ranch  had  nothing  to  do  with  her 
attitude  towards  me.  Her  deference,  if  it  could  be  really 
called  that,  was  much  more  subtle.  It  involved  the  recog- 
nition of  class  distinctions.  Had  she  been  an  English- 
woman I  should  have  understood  her  perfectly.  Always 
there  was  the  difficulty  of  getting  her  alone. 

Next  day,  I  seized  my  first  opportunity. 

Nosey  told  me  that  the  ancient  cook  was  out  for  the 
afternoon,  paying  visits  in  Santy.     Mame,  I  learned,  was 

167 


Some  Happenings 

in  the  kitchen.  I  found  her  reading  a  book  which  she 
closed  as  I  entered.  I  saluted  her  gravely,  and  then 
plunged  headlong. 

"Mame,  there's  trouble  at  the  ranch-house,  and  you're 
at  the  bottom  of  it." 

"Am  I?" 

"Yes.  Hank  and  Bud,  good  boys,  are  crazy  about  you. 
Loco !  Bud  writes  poetry,  and  Hank  hides  himself  in  a 
Prince  Albert  coat,  satin-lined." 

"I'll  fix  them.  You  leave  it  to  me.  They're  nice  boys. 
I'd  hate  to  make  trouble  between  them.  Can't  they  keep 
the  peace  for  a  bit  longer?" 

"I  don't  know.  That  sort  of  trouble  gets  acute  mighty 
quick." 

"I'll  watch  out.     Don't  you  worry!" 

She  looked  at  me  pensively,  with  a  faint  smile  curving 
her  red  lips.  I  was  near  enough  to  glance  carelessly  at  her 
nice  brown  hair,  always  exquisitely  arranged.  If  she  wore 
a  wig,  it  was  certainly  one  of  the  best,  I  took  my  leave 
more  puzzled  than  ever.  Nosey  was  waiting  for  me  in 
the  bar. 

"Any  luck?" 

I  repeated  the  conversation.     Nosey  nodded. 

"Playin'  fer  time,  is  she?  Wal — that's  a  heap  better'n 
doin'  it.  Say — I've  a  notion  to  give  a  ball.  We'll  hev  a 
hog-killin'  celebration." 

"Are  you  a  dancer,  Nosey?"  / 

"A  dancer — me?"  I  won  the  world's  championship, 
when  I  was  a  kid.  I  danced  fer  seventeen  hours.  I  quit 
dancin'  after  that." 

"Why?" 

"Wal,  sir,  after  I'd  downed  the  other  competitors,  I 
noticed  that  my  pardner  was  kinder  limp  and  listless.  I 
hed  to  carry  her  to  her  seat,  and  a  doctor  got  to  work  on 
i68 


The  Waitress  at  Santy 

her.  He  said  that  she'd  bin  dead  two  hours.  That's  what 
made  me  quit.  Now,  about  this  yere  ball;  we'll  dance  in 
the  dining-room,  and  hev  supper  in  the  bar.  You  scare 
up  a  big  crowd." 

"I  wonder  if  Mame  dances?" 

''Does  a  cat  eat  sardines?" 


Ill 


The  ball  was  a  memorable  affair.  Apart  from  what  may 
be  described  as  the  crowning  surprise  at  the  end  of  it,  to  be 
related  in  due  time,  there  was  the  gathering  together  of  a 
very  remarkable  crowd.  Our  foothills  harboured  some 
desperate  characters,  cattle-thieves  and  the  like,  to  whom 
the  lure  of  a  fiesta  was  irresistible.  Tickets  for  one  gentle- 
man and  his  lady  friend  were  sold  at  a  dollar  apiece.  Nosey 
was  not  optimist  enough  to  expect  to  make  money  out 
of  the  ball  proper.  A  profit  commensurate  with  the 
trouble  taken  would  be  gleaned  at  the  bar. 

Hank  appeared  in  his  Prince  Albert.  Bud  wore  a  black 
morning  coat  of  mine.  In  the  Wtsi  there  is  an  inviolate 
law:  no  trouble  before  women.  Cowboys  left  their  "guns" 
at  home.  AVe  averaged  three  cavaliers  to  one  lady,  but 
that  made  things  livelier  for  the  girls.  A  local  fiddler,  a 
sheep-herder,  was  instructed  to  do  his  best. 

Mame,  of  course,  was  the  Belle  of  the  Ball.  She  wore 
a  frock  fashioned  by  herself  out  of  cheese  cloth.  I  never 
wish  to  take  the  floor  with  a  lighter  or  better  performer. 
She  was  kind  enough  to  give  me  the  first  waltz.  As  we 
finished  a  young  man  entered  the  room,  stood  for  an  in- 
stant in  the  doorway,  glanced  round  him,  and  then  smiled. 
I  thought  he  was  smiling  at  me.  Out  of  the  corner  of  my 
eye  I  saw  Mame's  face.     She  was  very  pale,  and  her  eyes 

169 


Some  Happenings 

held  an  odd  furtive  expression.  This  vanished  immedi- 
ately, so  quickly  indeed  that  I  thought  I  had  been  mis- 
taken.    The  young  man  approached. 

"Hello,  Mary." 

"Hello,  Gene." 

He  put  out  his  hand  and  grasped  hers.  I  bowed  and 
left  them.  As  I  did  so  I  saw  Bud  staring  hard  at  the 
stranger.  Hank,  just  across  the  room,  stared  also.  I 
turned  to  glance  at  our  waitress.  She  was  whispering  to 
the  stranger,  as  he  stood  smiling  at  her.  They  edged  back 
out  of  the  crowd.     Bud  came  up  to  me  and  said  hoarsely: 

"Say,  you  know  that  guy?" 

"I  never  saw  him  before." 

"Same  here.  I  reckon  to  cut  him  outer  the  herd — 
pronto." 

He  approached  Mame,  and  I  had  curiosity  enough  to 
follow  him  at  a  discreet  distance.  He  claimed  the  next 
dance,  and  carried  off  Mame  triumphantly.  Hank  looked 
disappointed.  The  stranger  smiled,  surveying  the  crowd 
with  a  somewhat  derisive  lift  of  his  eyebrows.  He  might 
have  come  out  of  the  hills,  but  he  was  not  of  them.  I 
sized  him  up  as  a  city  clerk.  By  all  odds  he  was  the  hand- 
somest man  in  the  room. 

During  the  next  two  hours  I  was  trying  to  determine 
whether  a  comedy  or  a  tragedy  was  being  played  under 
my  nose.  Mame  danced  with  many  men,  but  after  each 
dance  she  returned  to  the  stranger.  Nobody  was  surprised 
to  see  them  supping  together.  Obviously,  too,  Bud  and 
Hank  had  joined  issues  in  the  common  desire  to  "out"  a 
dangerous  rival.  I  found  them  together,  drinking  Nosey's 
inflammatory  cocktails.  No  supper  for  them!  The  boys 
were  on  the  friendliest  terms.  Nosey  was  busy  behind  his 
bar.  The  supper-tables  were  spread  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room,  with  a  curtain  discreetly  hiding  the  bar  from  fair 
170 


The  Waitress  at  Santy 

and  censorious  eyes.  After  supper  the  curtain  would  be 
taken  down  and  the  room  given  over  to  the  men.  Then, 
and  not  till  then,  those  making  or  hunting  trouble  could 
count  themselves  free  agents.  At  supper,  each  man  waited 
upon  himself  and  partner. 

I  heard  Bud  say  to  Hank: 

"I've  a  notion  to  borry  a  gun  from  Nosey.  This  yere 
stranger  may  be  heeled." 

Hank  replied  mournfully: 

''Nosey  ain't  the  sport  he  useter  be." 

When  they  saw  me,  each  affected  a  too  boisterous  hilarity. 
Somehow  I  felt  sorry  for  the  stranger. 

After  supper  we  had  a  treat.  Mame  and  the  stranger 
took  the  floor  together.  In  those  days,  the  two-step  was 
almost  unknown.  One  two-step  only  figured  upon  the 
programme  hung  upon  the  wall  behind  the  fiddler.  He 
struck  up  a  Sousa  march.  At  once  I  knew  that  "Gene" 
was  a  professional  dancer,  as  graceful  as  "Adonis"  Dixey, 
and  much  of  the  same  build.  I  knew  also  that  this  two- 
step  had  been  promised  to  Bud  when  the  programme  was 
drawn  up.  Bud  fancied  himself  as  a  dancer  and  had  told 
all  the  boys  to  be  "around"  when  the  two-step  was  played. 
Bud  watched  the  gyrating  pair,  conscious  of  grins  upon 
the  faces  of  the  "boys."  Hank,  however,  was  quite  as 
angry  as  Bud.  Mame  had  promised  to  eat  supper  with  him. 
Under  the  circumstances,  I  thought  it  prudent  to  have  a 
word  with  Nosey.  I  found  him  below,  taking  down  the 
curtain.  When  I  recited  the  facts,  he  whistled.  I  added 
carelessly : 

"You  were  bragging  about  your  dancing.  You  ought  to 
see  this  fellow  at  it." 

"I  will,"  said  Nosey.  "You  wait  till  I  take  a  squint 
at  him." 

He  hurried  into  the  dancing-room,  and  was  back  in  a 

171 


Some  Happenings 

jiffy  with  an  unmistakable  expression  upon  his  face.  In 
moments  of  excitement  the  man's  nose  would  twitch. 
Hence,  possibly,  his  nickname.  It  was  twitching  now.  He 
took  my  arm. 

"This  thing  is  serious,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "Do  you  know 
who  Mame's  huggin'?" 

*'I  don't.  They're  old  friends.  This  isn't  the  first  time 
they've  two-stepped  together." 

"It  may  be  the  last,"  replied  Nosey. 

"Oh,  rot,"  I  replied.  "You  and  I  can  talk  to  the  boys. 
Mame  has  let  them  down  hard,  but  that  clears  the  air 
between  two  old  friends.  It's  our  job  to  see  that  they 
don't  pick  a  quarrel  with  this  stranger." 

Nosey's  answer  surprised  me : 

"I  ain't  worryin'  about  that.  I've  a  notion  to  get  a 
whiff  o'  fresh  air.  We'll  leave  that  curtain  up  a  mite 
longer." 

He  went  outside,  where  all  the  horses  were  hitched  to  a 
double  row  of  rails.  When  he  came  back  his  nose  was  still 
twitching. 

"Go,  git  Hank  and  Bud — quick.  Thar  ain't  a  moment 
to  lose." 

I  obeyed — wondering.  Bud  and  Hank  asked  no  ques- 
tions. I  fancy  that  they  counted  me  in  as  a  third  party. 
Nosey  had  found  an  understudy  to  serve  drinks.  He  beck- 
oned us  into  the  kitchen. 

"Boys,"  he  said  to  Hank  and  Bud,  "Mame  has  double- 
crossed  ye,  ain't  she?" 

Bud  answered  grimly : 

"The  fun  ain't  over  yet." 

"Now,  you  two  boys  are  sports.  D'ye  want  to  heap  red 
hot  coals  on  Mame's  head?  She  ain't  for  either  of  ye. 
This  is  a  big  chance  to  git  even  with  her  in  a  big  way." 

"I  ain't  guessin'  no  riddles  ter-night,  old  socks." 
172 


The  Waitress  at  Santy 

Nosey *s  voice  sank  to  a  melodramatic  whisper.  I  can't 
remember  whether  or  not  he  had  been  a  world-famous 
actor. 

*'Boys,  outside,  under  the  big  live  oak,  air  the  sheriff 
o'  this  yere  county  and  two  depities." 

*'Gee!" 

"They're  waitin'  for  them  two-steppers.  It's  my  idee 
that  we  kin  fool  'em.  The  Lord  jined  husband  an'  wife, 
let  not  man  put  'em  asunder." 

"Husband  an'  wife!" 

"Counterfeiters,  both  of  'em.  I  was  in  the  green  goods 
business  onct.     These  two  air  champions." 

"Suffering  Mike!" 

"The  San  Antone  Kid  and  his  wife.  They  was  both 
dancers.  I'd  hate  to  think  that  my  dance  landed  'em  in 
the  penitentiary." 

We  were  stupefied  into  silence.  I  had  read  the  story 
in  the  papers.  Romance  had  tinctured  an  otherwise  sordid 
tale.  The  police  had  made  sure  of  capturing  the  criminals, 
because  they  escaped  together  and  were  known  to  be  de- 
voted to  each  other.    The  wife  was  red-headed. 

"What  kin  we  do?"  murmured  Bud. 

Nosey  chuckled. 

"That's  big  money  in  the  way  of  reward.  You  boys  kin 
git  even  that  a  way." 

"You  go  to  blazes." 

"Nosey  has  a  plan,"  I  suggested. 

"Yes,  boys,  I  hev.  Mame  has  two  wigs.  The  Kid  ain't 
overly  big,  and  his  face  is  as  smooth  as  hers.  The  officers 
tracked  him  here.  They  don't  know  about  Mame.  Any- 
way, we  must  take  that  chance.  If  you  two  boys  escorted 
two  ladies  down  Magnolia  Avenoo,  with  the  moon  full 
on  yer  faces,  I'd  bet  what's  in  the  till  ye'd  fool  that  crowd 
under  the  live  oak.    They'll  be  watchin'  the  Kid's  broncho. 

^7Z 


Some  Happenings 

And,"  he  looked  hard  at  me,  "the  ranch-house  ain't  a  mile 
away." 

We  nodded  solemnly. 

Nosey  managed  the  details  with  consummate  art.  We 
three  were  as  wax  in  his  hands.  The  unwritten  law  helped 
us.  The  sheriff  and  his  deputies  had  to  consider  popular 
opinion.  To  break  up  a  pleasant  party  was  against  all 
precedent.  They  were  content  to  wait  till  the  guests  dis- 
persed. The  Kid  changed  into  the  working  kit  of  a  waitress 
in  his  wife's  room.  Several  couples,  after  supper,  went  for 
a  stroll  au  clair  de  la  lune.  Nosey  and  I  engaged  the 
Sheriff  in  conversation,  assuming  jocularly  that  they  were 
after  some  of  our  cattle-lifting  friends.  I  saw  Bud  and 
Hank  come  out  of  the  hotel,  each  with  an  arm  encircling 
his  companion.    Bud  broke  into  song  as  he  passed  us : 

"I  want  yer,  ma  honey,  yes,  I  do." 

The  ladies  were  discreetly  veiled. 

Next  day,  when  the  Kid  and  his  wife  were  over  the 
hills  and  far  away,  I  said  to  Bud  and  Hank : 

"Which  of  you  two  boys  walked  with  Mame  ?" 

*T  did,"  said  Bud.  "We  spun  a  dollar  about  it.  I 
squeezed  Mame  good  and  hard." 

Hank  snickered: 

*'Mame  kissed  me  when  I  told  her  good-bye." 

Nosey  didn't  advertise  for  another  waitress. 


174 


XI 

THE  DEATH   MASK 


A  PLASTER  cast,  the  head  of  a  young  girl,  used  to  hang 
upon  the  wall  of  a  small  room  adjoining  Burge's  studio 
in  Holland  Park  Road.  It  provoked  innumerable  ques- 
tions, for  the  face  had  a  curious  fascination;  a  subtlety  of 
expression  which  few  interpreted  alike.  In  certain  lights 
the  sadness  of  it  clutched  at  the  heart.  One  could  swear 
that  the  girl  had  suffered  cruelly.  And  yet,  dominating 
the  anguish  and  even  obHterating  it,  glowed  a  joy.  Some- 
times Burge  would  say  abruptly:  *'Well,  what  do  you 
make  of  that  smile  ?"  and  as  likely  as  not  a  stranger  would 
reply:  "I  see  no  smile."  Then  Burge  always  displayed 
nervousness  and  anxiety.  As  a  rule  he  would  take  down 
the  cast,  turning  it  this  way  and  that,  and  murmuring: 
**Now,  now  you  have  it — you  must  see  it.  Why,  man,  it's 
radiant."  And  always,  mind  you,  the  stranger  did  see  the 
smile,  which  once  seen  never  vanished,  although  intermin- 
able debates  arose  concerning  the  quality  of  it:  some  main- 
taining that  it  expressed  peace,  patience,  or  serenity; 
others — perhaps  these  had  more  imagination — detecting 
satisfaction,  complacency — triumph !  What  triumph,  was 
asked?  That  of  the  quick  or  the  dead.  And  then  Burge 
would  inflame  curiosity  by  the  statement  that  the  cast  was 
a  death  mask.  It  seemed  incredible,  because  the  cold 
plaster  palpitated  with  life. 

175 


Some  Happenings 

Burge  liked  to  talk  about  the  cast,  but  he  resented  ques- 
tions about  the  woman.  His  old  friends,  fellow-students 
in  Paris,  Florence,  and  Dusseldorf,  recalled  no  such  face 
amongst  the  models  of  their  day,  but  they  generally  added 
that  Burge  was  a  queer  fish  who  had  swum  in  many  seas. 
The  indiscreet:  "I  say,  Burge,  did  you  know  this  girl?" 
always  provoked  the  slow  drawling  reply:  "Not  I,  but  I 
know  her  now." 

Burge  was  dying  of  some  mysterious  disease  which  de- 
fied diagnosis.  He  had  achieved  fame  as  a  painter  of  men. 
He  never  painted  women.  In  his  student  days  great  things 
had  been  predicted  of  him  as  a  painter  of  the  nude.  Con- 
noisseurs raved  about  his  flesh  tints,  his  modelling,  his 
amazing  technique.  Great  ladies  asked  him  to  paint  their 
portraits.     Always  he  refused,  abruptly  and  emphatically. 

I  called  upon  him  only  a  few  days  before  he  died.  He 
was  sitting  in  an  armchair  staring  at  the  cast.  When  I 
asked  him  how  he  did,  he  answered  absently:  "Do  you 
see  forgiveness  in  her  face?"  I  was  able  to  reply  honestly 
enough  that  forgiveness  shone  out  of  it;  and  it  seemed 
amazing  to  me  that  this  particular  interpretation  of  the 
general  expression  had  escaped  our  notice.  "I  have  looked 
for  it  for  more  than  ten  years,"  he  muttered.  Then  he 
added  slowly:  "Some  day  I  may  tell  you  the  story  of  this 
cast,  but  not  now." 

A  week  afterwards  I  learned  that  he  was  dead,  and  later 
his  executors  gave  me  notice  that  his  pictures  and  furniture 
would  be  sold  at  auction.  I  attended  the  sale  with  the  in- 
tention of  buying  the  mask,  but  others,  it  seemed,  were  as 
anxious  to  possess  it  as  I.  When  it  was  put  up,  the  bidding 
became  brisk,  running  from  five  shillings  to  five  pounds 
within  as  many  minutes. 

"Any  advance  on  five  ?"  said  the  auctioneer. 
176 


The  Death  Mask 

"Six,"  said  I,  hoping  that  the  extra  pound  would  make 
the  cast  my  property. 

''Seven,"   said  a  stranger. 

I  stared  at  a  shrivelled,  brown-faced,  white-haired  man, 
of  middle  age,  obviously  a  Frenchman,  who  sat  on  a  chair 
facing  the  auctioneer.  He  took  no  notice  of  me ;  his  eyes, 
of  an  inscrutable  opaque  blue,  were  fixed  upon  the  plastei 
cast.  Looking  into  those  dull  orbs,  one  felt  that  the  light 
of  the  man's  life  had  been  turned  out — for  ever.  I  had 
an  impression  that  I  had  seen  him  somewhere  before ;  whert 
I  could  not  remember. 

"Eight  pounds,"  I  said  sharply. 

"Ten." 

Then  he  looked  at  me — piteously,  mutely  beseeching  me 
not  to  outbid  him.  I  was  sensible  that  he  would  go  no 
further,  that  the  cast  was  mine  for  an  extra  pound,  and 
the  desire  to  possess  it  became  irresistible.  But  with  the 
stranger's  eyes  upon  me,  I  hesitated.  The  auctioneer  asked 
if  I  would  advance  the  latest  bid.  I  muttered  confusedly : 
"Eleven."  Silence  followed,  broken  by  the  thud  of  the 
falling  hammer.    The  mask  was  mine. 

I  left  the  studio,  half  an  hour  later,  with  the  cast  under 
my  arm.  Outside,  a  short  November  day  was  drawing  to 
a  forlorn  close.  No  rain  fell,  but  a  fog  impended,  and  the 
lamps  already  lit  shone  palely  out  of  a  thickening  mist. 
I  thought  of  my  comfortable  rooms  and  quickened  my 
pace. 

"Monsieur!" 

I  clutched  my  cast.  The  Frenchman  was  waiting  for  me, 
and  in  his  opaque  eyes  which  rested  upon  the  parcel  under 
my  arm  I  read  something  which  caused  me,  involuntarily, 
to  glance  round  in  search  of  a  policeman.  He  made  a 
gesture  of  apology,  and  continued  quickly:  "I  beg  pardon, 
but  Monsieur  is  the  gentleman  who  bought  the  cast.     Will 

^77 


Some  Happenings 

Monsieur  accord  me  one  minute  of  his  valuable  time?" 

"We  can  talk  as  we  walk,"  said  I.  This  man,  I  told 
myself,  might  have  a  story  to  tell,  and  I  was  a  story-teller. 
I  had  bought  the  cast  with  the  intention  of  writing  a  story 
about  it.    The  Frenchman  began  volubly: 

''Monsieur  has  paid  a  great  sum  of  money  for  a  cast 
worth  a  couple  of  francs?  Monsieur  is  a  man  of  heart. 
Without  doubt  he  wished  to  procure — at  any  price — a 
souvenir  of  a  friend.  At  the  same  time,  money  is  money. 
Monsieur  will  pardon  the  indiscretion,  but  he  has  not  the 
air  of  a  Rothschild,  par  exemple     .     .     ." 

I  cut  him  short.    ''Have  I  met  you  before?" 

"No,  Monsieur,  but " 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"A  bagatelle,  for  which  I  am  willing  to  pay  half  the  sum 
Monsieur  has  paid.  I  am  an  artist,  moi,  and  I  am  en- 
chanted, ravished  with  the  cast,  which  is  unique.  If  Mon- 
sieur would  allow  a  copy  to  be  made " 

I  hesitated.  My  lodging  was  near  at  hand.  I  felt  un- 
able to  say  yes  or  no  in  a  hurry.  But  I  had  paid  a  sum 
greater  than  I  could  afford,  and  the  prospect  of  splitting 
it  in  two  was  not  disagreeable.  The  Frenchman  accepted 
an  invitation  to  climb  my  stairs  with  alacrity. 

"You  are  well  installed.  Monsieur,"  said  he,  as  we 
reached  the  first  floor. 

"Yes,"  I  replied  carelessly.  "I  have  a  couple  of  rooms 
for  myself,  and  another  for  an  occasional  guest."  I  indi- 
cated the  door  of  my  guest-chamber  with  a  gesture,  as  we 
passed  into  my  sitting-room.  At  once  my  visitor  begged 
to  be  allowed  to  see  the  cast.  When  the  face  with  its 
subtle  smile  was  revealed,  he  began  to  murmur  extravagant 
phrases  of  admiration. 

"It  is  adorable,  but  adorable.     Monsieur  feels  the  charm 
— heinf    Monsieur  is  artiste?    Is  it  not  so?" 
178 


The  Death  Mask 

'Yes,"  said  I.    "And  if  one  could  reproduce  the  colour- 


ing  

"But  that  is  easy,  Monsieur."  He  paused,  half  shutting 
his  eyes.  "I  can  see  her — the  angel.  Hair  of  pale  gold, 
of  the  fineness  of  silk,  floss  silk,  with  a  ripple — and  of  a 
length !  And  the  skin — pale  comme  un  beau  soir  d'automne! 
And  of  a  texture!  Dieu  de  Dieu!  And  the  lips — coral, 
showing  small  white  teeth  set  wide.    And  her  eyes !" 

**Blue,  no  doubt,"  I  hazarded. 

He  shook  his  head. 

''Blue  is  cold.  Monsieur.  Picture  to  yourself  the  colour 
of  the  shadow  which  falls  on  a  white  road,  when  the  sun 
is  hot  and  high.  Bon!  I  will  tell  you  how  to  make  that 
colour,  so  elusive,  so  tender.  Mix  the  gold  of  the  hair 
with  the  coral  of  the  lip — so,  and  then  add  a  bleu 
celeste     .     .     ." 

He  fell  into  a  reverie. 

"And  the  figure,"  said  I,  gently  touching  him. 

*'Ah — the  figure!  Had  Monsieur  seen  a  nymph  in  the 
Louvre:  a  masterpiece:  Amove  Cieco.  She  had  the  same 
limbs " 

He  stopped  suddenly,  and  I  saw  that  his  thin  fingers, 
trembled  and  twitched. 

"You  knew  her?"  said  I. 

"Yes." 

I  had  the  feeling  that  I  was  constraining  him  to  tell  the 
truth  against  his  will. 

"And  Burge  knew  her?" 

"Ah — Burge !"  In  an  instant  his  face  changed :  and  a 
sinister  light  glowed  in  his  opaque  eyes ;  in  a  sort  of  inar- 
ticulate fury  he  began  to  stammer  out  abuse  of  Burge 

"Burge  is  dead,"  I  said  coldly. 

"Yes — he  escaped." 

Burge  had  been  twice  my  visitor's  weight  and  size ;  yet  for 

I7Q 


Some  Happenings 

the  moment,  so  invincible  is  the  strength  of  human  hate, 
I  felt  a  relief  that  Burge  had  escaped.  But  beyond  and 
above  this  singular  relief  was  the  conviction  that  the  word 
'"escaped"  set  forth  the  expression  of  complacency  upon 
the  fact  of  the  cast,  one  of  the  many  expressions  which 
challenged  curiosity. 

''And  she  escaped?"  said  I  tentatively. 

"Did  she?" 

I  append  a  note  of  interrogation,  but  the  note  was  ad- 
dressed by  the  speaker  to  himself,  not  to  me. 

"Certainly,"  I  replied.  "She  wanted  to  escape  from 
some  one — and  she  did  escape — from  some  one.  Was  it 
you?" 

At  last  I  had  aroused  his  indignation.  He  turned  on  me 
furiously : 

"You — you — you  dare  to  ask  such  questions?  By  what 
right?    This  is  infamous — an  outrage!" 

"True.    I  beg  pardon.    Good-night." 

He  glared  at  me,  confounded  by  the  simple  word  of  dis- 
missal. Then  his  glance  softened  as  it  fell  upon  the  cast. 
In  the  gathering  shadows  I  seemed  to  note  a  new  expres- 
sion upon  the  lips ;  the  smile  had  become  derisive.  This 
discovery  so  absorbed  me  that  I  failed  to  notice  the  de- 
parture of  my  visitor.  A  door  slammed  violently,  before 
I  realised  that  I  was  alone. 

Contrary  to  custom  I  dined  at  home  that  night.  My 
landlady,  an  excellent  creature  whom  I  had  supposed  to 
be  absolutely  lacking  in  imagination,  brought  up  my  tray. 
I  was  staring  at  the  cast  as  she  entered  the  room.  Immedi- 
ately curiosity  flamed  upon  her  dull  florid  face.  The  state- 
ment that  I  held  a  death  mask  provoked  a  gurgle  of  dis- 
may. I  asked  her  what  she  made  of  it,  as  she  approached 
the  table  with  a  decanter  of  claret  in  her  hand. 
1 80 


The  Death  Mask 

"The  pore  thing  looks  as  if  she'd  been  murdered." 

"Good  God !"  said  I. 

The  light  from  a  hanging  lamp  passing  through  the  de- 
canter of  claret  had  flung  a  crimson  stain  upon  the  white 
neck.  It  vanished  as  the  woman  moved,  but  the  horrible 
significance  of  it  remained.  More,  I  noticed,  something 
which  till  then  had  escaped  observation.  The  base  of  the 
throat  was  encircled  by  what  hitherto  I  had  taken  to  be 
the  band  of  a  dress.  Now  it  struck  me  with  a  crushing 
violence  of  conviction  that  the  band  was  a — bandage! 

The  landlady  bustled  away  with  a  backward  glance  of 
horror  at  the  mask.  I  ate  my  dinner  with  feeble  appetite, 
and  lit  a  cigar.  Then  I  hung  the  cast  upon  a  nail  on  the 
wall,  and  sitting  opposite  to  it  tried  to  wring  from  it  the 
secret  behind  the  smile.  I  had  listened  to  extravagant 
speculations  concerning  the  fate  of  the  dead  girl,  but  none 
had  included  the  suggestion  of  a  violent  end.  The  smoke 
from  my  cigar  curled  upwards  in  thickening  spirals,  ob- 
scuring the  plaster,  revealing  the  flesh  and  blood.  By 
Heaven !  the  landlady  had  hit  the  mark.  This  sweet  creature 
had  been  done  to  death.  Suicide  I  rejected:  confronted 
by  the  serenity  and  sanity  of  her  expression.  She  had 
been  murdered.  And  yet — the  face  was  so  gentle,  so  ten- 
der, it  suffused  such  an  atmosphere  of  peace  that  I  shrank 
appalled  from  what  seemed  a  monstrous,  abominable  viola- 
tion. The  white  purity  of  the  plaster  was  defiled, 
deflowered  by  the  atrocious  word : — murder ! 

I  went  to  bed  early  and  tried  to  compose  myself  to  sleep. 
But  soon  I  became  aware  that  I  was  helplessly  wide  awake, 
and  likely  to  remain  so.  Finding  it  impossible  to  wean  my 
thoughts  from  the  mask,  I  gave  myself  up  to  speculation 
in  regard  to  it.  I  began  to  regret  the  premature  dismissal 
of  the  Frenchman.  If  I  had  granted  his  request,  if  I  had 
permitted  him  to  make  a  copy,  I  might  at  least  have  learned 

i8i 


Some  Happenings 

his  name — false  or  assumed — and  his  address.  But  he 
had  inspired  a  repugnance  of  such  intensity,  that  at  the 
moment  when  I  bade  him  good-bye,  I  could  have  violently 
thrust  him  out  of  the  room,  had  he  not  gone  away  of  his 
own  accord.  Why?  I  am  not  a  morbid  man.  As  a 
journalist  I  have  met  and  talked  with  noted  criminals.  I 
can  remember  perfectly  the  impression  made  upon  me  by 
such  monsters  as  Peace  and  Lefroy;  an  impression  com- 
pounded of  horror,  curiosity,  and  interest,  but  not  fear. 

Why  had  this  Frenchman  so  affected  me? 

Inexorably,  I  determined  that  something  more  than 
coincidence  had  brought  us  together,  that  the  man  had 
come  into  my  life,  and  that  he  and  I  would  meet  again. 
One  thing  was  certain:  he  had  loved  the  girl  whose  death 
mask  was  in  my  possession. 

Finally,  I  fell  asleep,  to  wake  in  a  rigour  of  terror  quite 
indescribable.  I  had  dreamed  that  I  had  seen  the  girl  lying 
in  bed.  I  my  dream  I  watched  her,  fascinated  by  the  beauty 
of  her  face.  But  as  I  gazed,  spell-bound,  and  unable  to 
conjecture  how  or  why  I  came  to  be  there,  the  conviction 
stole  upon  me  that  the  girl  was  not  asleep  but  dead;  and 
this  conviction  paralysed  my  energies,  so  that  I  dared  not 
move  to  satisfy  myself  of  the  truth  of  it.  I  could  only 
stare  at  the  lips  which  smiled  delicately,  derisively — and 
yet  happily. 

Not  till  I  perceived  the  happiness  of  the  smile  was  I  able 
to  move.  I  touched  her  cheek,  it  was  cool  not  cold;  I  laid 
my  ear  to  her  lips.  Alas!  She  was  dead.  Or — hope 
quickened  my  pulses — in  a  trance.  Perhaps  her  heart  still 
beat,  but  so  faintly  that  its  vibrations  could  not  pass 
through  the  thick  bed  clothes  tucked  tightly  round  her  and 
up  to  her  chin.  With  a  certain  hesitation,  I  thrust  my 
hand  beneath  the  sheet  and  laid  it  trembling  on  her  bosom. 
182 


The  Death  Mask 

I  withdrew  it  instantly.  My  fingers,  the  whole  hand  in- 
deed, were  dripping  wet  and — hideously  red. 

The  horror  of  it  woke  me. 

Within  a  minute,  however,  I  was  able  to  laugh  at  the 
nightmare,  to  reconstruct  it,  adjusting  fact  and  fancy. 
Later,  I  began  to  regard  it  as  material  out  of  which  I  might 
weave  a  story.  The  dream  had  been  so  vivid  that  I  de- 
termined to  write  down  what  I  could  still  see  and  feel, 
before  the  mirage  faded  and  the  thrill  passed. 

I  did  not  strike  a  match,  because  a  full  moon  was  shining 
through  the  window ;  and  I  remember  wondering  whether 
its  beams  had  touched  my  brain.  Then  I  crossed  to  the 
door  and  passed  through  it  and  into  the  room  beyond. 
Upon  my  desk  lay  notebook  and  pencil ;  upon  the  wall  hung 
the  cast.  At  that  moment  it  was  a  piece  of  plaster — nothing 
more.  Staring  at  it,  my  imagination  cooled.  To  warm  it 
I  decided  to  try  an  experiment.  I  took  the  mask  from  its 
nail,  returned  to  my  bedroom,  and  laid  the  girl's  face  upon 
my  pillow.  With  the  aid  of  other  pillows  and  cushions  I 
simulated  a  woman's  form,  covering  all  with  the  bed- 
clothes and  tucking  them  tight  under  the  chin.  The  moon- 
light, however,  was  too  strong.  I  pulled  down  one  blind 
and  then  another.  Finally  I  was  satisfied.  By  some  happy 
chance  I  had  succeeded  beyond  expectation.  A  stranger 
would  have  sworn  that  a  young  girl  lay  sleeping  in  the 
shadows. 

I  was  about  to  fetch  my  pencil  and  notebook,  when  I 
noted  an  effect  for  which  I  was  unprepared.  The  bosom 
of  the  figure  on  my  bed  was  rising  and  falling.  At  once 
I  guessed  the  cause:  one  of  the  blinds,  silently  moved  by 
a  draught,  had  produced  an  optical  delusion,  so  perfect 
that  I  strained  my  ears  to  catch  the  sound  of  the  sleeper's 
breathing.     And  I  heard — breathing;  a  low,  gasping  sigh, 

183 


Some  Happenings 

which  came,  assuredly,  from  a  living  creature  moving  in 
my  sitting-room! 

And  now  the  same  paralysis  which  overtook  me  in  my 
dream  came  upon  me  in  reality.  I  could  not  move  hand 
or  foot,  although  my  brain  became  incredibly  active.  I 
clutched  the  truth  instantly.  The  stranger  with  the  un- 
canny eyes  was  in  my  sitting-room,  looking  for  the  cast, 
with  the  intention,  doubtless,  of  stealing  it;  I  recalled  his 
sudden  exit,  the  slam  of  the  door,  the  silence  that  suc- 
ceeded. He  had  not  gone  downstairs,  but  had  slipped 
into  my  spare  room,  the  room  I  had  told  him  was  seldom 
used. 

My  ears  warned  pie  of  his  stealthy  approach ;  the  door 
behind  stood  ajar;  I  could  tell  to  an  inch  where  he  stood 
and  what  he  was  doing;  I  could  follow  him  in  fancy  as  he 
glided  slowly  from  table  to  chimney-piece,  from  chimney- 
piece  to  desk,  inevitably  nearing  me,  me,  the  impotent, 
panic-stricken  fool ! 

His  fingers  encircled  the  handle  of  the  door  between  us 
as  power  returned  to  my  muscles ;  but  freedom  had  been 
restored  too  late.  If  I  moved,  he  would  be  upon  me;  and 
if  he  were  armed  what  chance  would  be  mine?  The  door 
opened  inwards.     I  crouched  behind  it. 

I  suppose  that  when  he  entered  his  eye  fell  upon  the  bed, 
and  the  figure  lying  on  it.  And  it  may  be  conceived  thai 
the  shock  of  what  he  saw  was  overpowering.  He  staggered 
forward,  exclaiming:  **Claire — Claire!"  and  fell  senseless 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  When  he  recovered  consciousness, 
he  found  himself  sitting  on  the  carpet,  pinioned  to  the 
stout  bedpost,  and  staring  vacantly  into  my  face. 

"Claire,"  he  repeated,  "Claire." 

I  made  him  understand  what  had  taken  place. 

"I  wanted  the  cast,"  he  said  simply.     'T  had  no  thought 
of  injuring  you,  Monsieur." 
184 


The  Death  Mask 

As  he  carried  no  weapon,  a  fact  I  had  taken  pains  to 
find  out,  I  was  inclined  to  believe  him. 

"All  the  same  you  have  committed  a  felony." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Then  he  said  derisively: 
''You  can  send  me  to  one  of  your  prisons.  Enfin,  I  shall 
find  it  a  pleasant  change  after  New  Caledonia." 

''You  have  been  in  a  French  penal  settlement?" 

"Do  I  look  as  if  I  had  been  spending  my  life  in  the 
Faubourg  Saint  Germain?" 

"Why  were  you  sent  to  New  Caledonia?" 

"Monsieur  likes  to  ask  questions." 

"And  if  you  answer  them,  I  may  let  you  go.  For  what 
crime  were  you  sent  to  New  Caledonia?" 

"I  was  convicted  of — murder." 

The  ferocity  in  the  man's  face  had  melted  out  of  it, 
leaving  behind  a  pathetic  despair.  I  tried  to  take  from  the 
thin  and  twisted  features  the  lines  which  abominable  hard- 
ships had  inflicted;  and  then  I  perceived  that  once  this 
poor  wretch  had  been  young  and  handsome.  Now  he  was 
so  broken,  so  crippled  by  suffering,  that  I  could  hardly 
realise  that  he  had  inspired  in  me  any  feeling  save  that  of 
pity.  In  silence  I  removed  the  strap  and  assisted  him  to 
rise.  He  refused  food,  but  accepted  a  small  glass  of 
brandy. 

"You  ask  no  more  questions.  Monsieur." 

I  felt  hot,  because  my  curiosity,  mordant  as  ever,  seemed 
shameful,  vulgar,  cruel.  In  a  crude  fashion  I  explained  this 
to  him,  and  begged  his  pardon.  He  eyed  me  curiously, 
as  he  asked  if  I  understood  French.  Upon  my  replying 
in  the  affirmative,  he  said  in  his  own  tongue  that  he  would 
tell  me  his  story,  because  he  felt  sure  that  I  would  believe 
it.  In  a  year  or  two,  he  added,  he  would  be  dead,  and  then, 
if  I  so  pleased,  I  could  repeat  the  tale  to  others. 

I  gave  him  a  chair.    Holding  the  cast  between  his  scarred 

185 


Some  Happenings 

trembling  hands,  staring  at  it  with  a  fierce  yet  piteous  inter- 
rogation, as  if  he  were  asking  a  question  which  never 
could  be  answered,  he  began  to  speak  with  a  listless  intona- 
tion, whose  monotony  became  more  and  more  impressive. 
Frequently  he  paused,  and  his  intermittences  of  silence 
moved  me  profoundly.  I  may  describe  the  impression  they 
made  on  me  by  comparing  them  to  the  interstellar  spaces. 
His  words,  like  the  stars  on  a  dark  night,  illumined  without 
revealing  the  universe  of  darkness  and  mystery  which  en- 
compassed them. 

II 

"Burge  and  I,"  he  began,  "were  fellow  students  at  the 
Ecole  des  Beaux  Arts,  pupils  of  the  famous  Saphir.  We 
were  also  friends,  and  lodged  together  in  the  rue  de  Soleil 
d'or,  which  runs  into  the  Quai  des  Grands  Augustins.  In 
the  summer  of  '86  we  went  to  Brittany,  to  Port  Navalo, 
a  hamlet  of  fisher-folk  situated  on  a  small  island  in  the 
bay  of  Morbihan.  All  the  able-bodied  men  had  sailed  away 
to  Iceland,  a  la  grande  peche.  .  .  . 

*'Here,  we  found  a  rude  lodging  in  the  house  of  a  widow. 
Picture  to  yourself  a  long,  low  building  of  grey  granite 
with  a  yard  behind  surrounded  by  stables  and  a  granary. 
The  lower  front  windows  looked  out  upon  the, bay,  upon 
that  terrible  race.  La  Jument,  which,  at  each  turn  of  the 
tide,  boils  between  Port  Navalo  and  Locmariaker.  In  this 
whirlpool,  the  husband  of  the  widow  had  disappeared.  She 
told  us  that  he  was  one  of  the  few  peasant  proprietors  of 
the  island,  and  we  learned  from  others  that  he  had  squan- 
dered his  substance  in  the  wineshops  of  Vannes.  No  sober 
man  would  have  tried  to  steer  a  boat  through  that  raging 
rapid.  When  he  died  nothing  was  left  to  the  widow — 
Mere  le  Benz — but  the  old  homestead  and  one  child — 
Claire. 

i86 


The  Death  Mask 

"Monsieur,  I  cannot  speak  of  the  child's  charm.  But  it 
lives  in  this  plaster  cast.  Burge  and  I  were  mad  to  paint 
her.  It  was  that  at  first,  nothing  more.  We  had  found  a 
model.     .     .     . 

**The  mother,  you  must  understand,  was  Bretonne 
hretonnante,  a  peasant  of  Morbihan,  pious,  superstitious, 
illiterate,  and  a  grasper  of  centimes.  But  Claire  had  been 
educated  at  a  small  convent  whose  Mother  Superior  was 
the  sister  of  her  father.  She  spoke  French,  and  had 
pretty  manners.  The  aunt  had  wished  her  to  take  the  veil, 
but  she  preferred  to  help  her  mother,  who  was  crippled  by 
rheumatism.  When  we  came  to  Port  Navalo,  she  had  just 
turned  seventeen.  She  was  too  good.  Monsieur,  so  kind, 
so  tender  to  the  unfortunate,  that  the  people  of  the  island 
adored  her.  To  many  she  seemed  to  be  a  true  daughter 
of  the  Holy  Mother.  I  have  seen  children  cross  themselves 
when  she  went  by.     .     .     . 

"We  asked  her  to  pose.  She  refused.  Meantime  we 
had  made  a  studio  out  of  an  attic  above  the  granary.  Here 
we  worked  when  the  weather  was  bad,  and  smoked,  and 
talked.  We  talked  of  art,  Monsieur.  We  never  wearied  of 
describing  the  great  pictures  which  we  meant  to  paint. 
When  the  weather  was  fine  we  worked  en  plein  air.  Each 
day  I  asked  Claire  to  pose,  each  day  she  refused.     .     .     . 

**And  then,  one  evening,  Burge  said  to  me  abruptly,  T 
begin  a  study  of  Claire's  head  to-morrow.' 

*'  'You  have  persuaded  her?'  said  I. 

'*  T  have  persuaded  the  mother.  They  are  pious  souls. 
It  seems  that  the  father  died  in  mortal  sin.  Many  masses 
must  be  paid  for  the  repose  of  his  soul.  For  the  rest, 
everything  comes  to  him  who  knows  how  to  wait.' 

''Next  morning.  Monsieur,  the  poor  child  carried  wet 
eyes  to  the  studio.  I  was  furious,  because  Burge  had 
succeeded,  furious  because  he,  my  friend,  was  not  willing 

187 


Some  Happenings 

to  share  his  good  fortune  with  me.  Naturally  I  laughed 
at  Claire's  scruples.     .     .     . 

"But  her  instinct  had  warned  her.  The  day  came  too 
soon,  when  she  ran,  laughing  and  singing,  to  the  studio; 
she  came  away  sighing.  Monsieur,  those  sighs  pierced  my 
heart,  for  I  guessed  how  it  was  with  her,  and  by  that  time 
I  knew  well  enough  how  it  was  with  me.     .     .     . 

"Burge  made  two  studies  of  her  head,  but  he  was  not 
satisfied.  He  entreated  her  to  take  off  her  coiffe.  You 
know,  Monsieur,  that  a  Bretonne  maiden  never  uncovers 
her  head  to  a  stranger.  But  Burge  insisted.  And  she 
consented.     .     .     . 

**You  will  guess  what  followed.  Burge  was  insatiable. 
He  wanted  her  for  the  figure.  He  had  told  me  that  he 
wished  to  paint  her  as  Blandina,  the  martyr.  And  he 
had  dared  to  tell  her,  the  simple  child,  that  she  ought  to 
feel  honoured,  that  the  Holy  Mother  would  approve,  that 
her  scruples  were  sinful.     .     .     . 

"Monsieur,  I  swear  to  you  that  if  he  had  loved  her,  I 
could  have  forgive  him,  but  he  cared  for  nothing  save  his 
art.  When  he  discovered  that  she  loved  him,  he  used  her 
love  as  a  lever  to  warp  her  will  to  his.  I  told  him  that  he 
was  doing  an  evil  thing.  *I  have  respected  her,'  said  he.  I 
laughed  in  his  face  and  left  him.  He  had  respected  her, 
this  cold-blooded  Englishman.    He  had  respected  her. 

"About  this  time,  gossip  touched  her  with  its  poisonous 
tongue.  The  children,  whom  she  loved,  jeered  when  she 
went  by,  the  women  flouted  her — the  pure  angel ! 

"She  must  have  suffered  horribly;  but  her  beauty  in- 
creased. She  had  steadily  refused  to  pose  for  the  figure, 
but  Burge  felt  confident  that  she  would  yield  in  the  end. 
And  I  knew  the  strength  of  his  will.  *I  do  not  regret  this 
delay,'  he  said  to  me,  ^because  she  is  getting  the  exact 
1 88 


The  Death  Mask 

expression  I  want.  I  tell  you  that  my  picture,  Blandina, 
Virgin  and  Martyr,  will  make  me  famous !' 

"  'You  had  better  make  haste,'  I  replied.  'When  the  men 
return  from  Iceland,  Jan  Taric  may  have  something  to 
say.' 

"Jan  Taric,  we  had  been  told,  was  mad  for  love  of  Claire. 
She  used  to  talk  of  him  when  we  first  came  to  Navalo. 
Of  late,  she  had  not  mentioned  Jan's  name,  and  when  I 
spoke  of  him  to  her,  she  seemed  nervous  and  distressed. 

"Next  day,  Burge  told  me  that  he  wanted  the  studio  to 
himself,  during  certain  hours.  Then  I  knew  that  Claire 
had  yielded,  that  the  big  picture  was  to  be  begun. 

"Three  weeks  passed.  Each  morning,  each  evening,  I 
saw  the  huge  canvas  leaning  face  to  the  wall.  Burge  said 
that  he  would  not  show  it  to  me  till  it  was  done.  He 
worked  in  a  frenzy  of  excitement,  in  a  fever  which  seemed 
to  consume  not  him,  the  strong  man,  but  Claire.  And 
Burge,  the  animal!  must  have  known  it.  For  me,  I  could 
not  touch  a  brush.  I  spent  my  time  on  the  beach,  staring 
at  La  Jument,  that  terrible  monster  which  had  swallowed 
up  Claire's  father.  And  it  seemed  to  me  less  ruthless,  less 
cruel,  than  the  man,  my  friend,  who  was  devouring  Claire. 
La  Jument  slays  swiftly! 

"Sitting  by  the  sea,  I  watched  the  boats  come  home  from 
the  north.  One  by  one  they  sailed  into  the  bay,  and  the 
hoarse  voices  of  the  men  were  heard  on  the  quay  and 
smiles  lay  on  the  faces  of  the  women.     .     .     . 

"I  am  certain  that  Claire  knew  that,  save  as  a  model,  she 
was  less  to  Burge  than  a  tube  of  paint.  The  knowledge 
gave  her  a  resignation,  a  pathos,  a  dignity,  which  Burge 
transferred  to  his  canvas.     .     .     . 

"And  then,  one  afternoon,  La  Cigale,  Jan's  boat,  sailed 
into  the  bay.  Jan  came  ashore:  a  giant  with  huge  shoul- 
ders, and  fierce  smouldering  eyes,  an  unsmiling  man,  Mon- 

189 


Some  Happenings 

sieur,  with  the  sadness  of  those  northern  seas  on  his  face 
and  in  his  blood.  I  saw  him  look  at  Claire  only  once,  but 
that  was  enough.  Already  he  had  heard  the  gossip;  he 
knew  that  the  girl  he  adored  spent  hours  alone  in  the 
studio  of  the  tall,  handsome  Englishman.  When  he  met 
Claire  upon  the  quay,  he  turned  his  back  upon  her,  saying 
a  word  in  Breton  which  I  did  not  understand. 

^'Monsieur,  not  till  then  did  I  realise  what  Burge 
had  done.  Claire  stood  stupefied,  staring  at  Jan.  The 
other  women  laughed,  as  she  turned  and  went  slowly 
up  the  hill  to  her  mother's  house.  I  followed  her. 
When  we  were  out  of  sight,  I  caught  her  up.  She  was 
weeping  in  a  despairing  silence  terrible  to  witness.  I  took 
her  hand  and  asked  her  to  become  my  wife.  She  refused — 
smiling  through  her  tears,  the  tender  creature — and  begged 
me  to  leave  her.  I  ran  on  to  the  house,  where  I  found 
Burge  in  his  room.  I  told  him  that  Jan  Taric  had  insulted 
Claire;  he  looked  uneasy,  nothing  more.  Then  he  said 
slowly :    Terhaps  we  had  better  pack  our  traps  and  go.' 

"  *  Your  picture  is  finished  ?'  I  cried. 

**  'Yes,'  he  replied  gravely.    'Come  and  look  at  it.' 

*'We  walked  in  silence  to  the  attic.  Burge  turned  roimd 
the  big  canvas,  and  laughed  triumphantly.  .  .  . 

"He  had  painted  a — masterpiece.  One  always  knows 
what  is  really  great,  Monsieur — is  it  not  so?  Saphir  had 
said  that  Burge  would  go  far,  and  now  he  had  gone,  at  a 
jump,  so  far  that  the  distance  between  us  seemed  immeasur- 
able. For  the  moment,  you  see,  I  could  think  of  nothing 
but  the  picture  which  he  had  boasted  would  make  him 
famous:  Blandina,  Virgin  and  Martyr.     .     .     . 

"I  swear  to  you.  Monsieur,  that  my  eyes  were  wet  for 

Blandina,  not  Claire.    And  then  I  remembered.    After  all, 

this  man  had  only  painted  what  he  saw,  a  virgin  and  a 

martyr:  a  martyr  to  a  cruel  and  insatiable  ambition.  .  .  . 

190 


The  Death  Mask 

He  would  pack  his  traps,  as  he  said,  and  depart;  Claire 
would  remain — naked  and  ashamed! 

"A  sort  of  fury  possessed  me,  and  then,  as  I  was  strug- 
gling to  control  myself,  I  heard  him  say:  Tell  me  frankly, 
what  is  in  your  mind.' 

"  'You  have  painted  a  great  picture,'  I  said  vehemently, 
*and  you  have  painted  it  with  the  blood  of  a  martyr.' 

"He  asked  for  an  explanation.  I  told  him  what  he  had 
done,  and  then  for  her  sake  I  entreated  him  to  marry  her. 
It  was  the  only  expiation  possible.  She  was  pure,  beautiful, 
intelligent.  A  peasant,  if  you  will,  but  he,  Burge,  was  of  the 
people,  a  bourgeois,  the  son,  I  believe,  of  a  small  farmer. 
He  listened  patiently  enough ;  then  he  said  derisively : 
*Why  do  you  not  marry  her  yourself?'  I  told  him  that  I 
had  offered  her  marriage.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
'You  are  a  madman,'  he  said  contemptuously;  'in  a  month 
this  girl  will  have  forgotten  both  of  us.  She  will  marry 
her  Jan  before  All  Saints'  Day.    I  shall  tell  her  to  do  so.' 

''Monsieur,  the  rage  of  La  Jument  possessed  me.  I  do 
not  remember  what  I  said.  The  words  boiled  out  of  my 
mouth,  as  the  strong  tide  of  love  rushed  to  meet  an  incom- 
ing ocean  of  hate.     .     .     . 

''When  I  paused,  spent  by  passion,  he  laughed !  Then 
I  struck  him;  and  he  struck  back,  giving  me  a  dozen  blows 
for  my  one.  Finally,  he  thrust  me  from  the  studio,  and 
flung  me,  half  senseless,  down  the  steps  into  the  court- 
yard.    .     .     . 

"I  went  to  my  own  room  and  locked  the  door. 

"Monsieur,  murder  was  in  my  heart.  I  had  been  beaten 
by  a  man  infinitely  stronger  than  myself.  And  his  blows, 
had  fallen  on  my  head  and  heart,  crushing  everything 
within  me  save  the  instinct  of  revenge.  I  lay  on  my  bed 
for  hours,  thinking  how,  when,  where,  I  should  kill  him. 
Presently,  I  heard  him  enter  his  room,  which  was  next  to 


Some  Happenings 

mine.    He  hummed  some  song — a  chanson  d'atelier — as  he 
leisurely  undressed.     .     .     . 

*'That  was  the  last  straw.  He  could  sing,  when  Claire 
and  I  had  suffered  so  atrociously  at  his  hands. 

"I  rose  from  my  bed  and  looked  out  of  the  window.  Be- 
low, to  the  right,  I  could  hear  La  Jument  roaring,  tossing 
her  white  mane,  as  the  waters  of  the  great  bay  met  the 
irresistible  tide  of  the  Atlantic;  and  then,  suddenly,  above 
the  roar,  a  lamentable  cry,  an  importunate  wail,  pierced 
my  ears.  I  told  myself  it  was  the  escape  of  a  sea  bird,  the 
mournful  note  of  a  plover  or  curlew,  but  in  a  vague 
mysterious  fear  I  connected  it  with  Claire.  It  seemed  as  if 
she  were  protesting  against  what  I  was  about  to  do.    .    .    . 

"For  my  plan  was  matured.  On  the  morrow  I  would 
make  my  peace  with  Burge.  Then  I  would  propose  a  sail 
on  the  bay.  We  had  sailed  together  many  a  time,  and 
always  I,  and  not  Burge,  handled  the  boat.  He  would  sit 
in  the  bows,  absorbed  in  thought,  gazing  out  over  the 
waters.  How  easy  it  would  be  to  delay  our  return  to  Port 
Navalo  upon  some  obvious  pretext  of  wind  or  tide.  And 
then,  how  easy  to  drift  into  the  fierce  current  of  La 
Jument.  Next  day  our  bodies  would  drift  ashore  on  the 
sands  of  Locmariaker.  .  .  .  And  at  the  last,  when  we 
were  doomed,  I  would  rouse  him  from  his  reverie,  and  tell 
him  what  I  had  done.    .    .    . 

"Presently,  I  was  seized  with  an  irresistible  desire  to  look 
again  upon  the  picture  Burge  had  painted.  I  slipped  out 
of  the  window,  and  walked  round  the  house  to  the  back 
yard. 

"Claire  and  her  mother  slept  in  two  attics  above  the 
kitchen,  which  were  reached  by  an  outside  staircase  often 
seen  in  Breton  houses.  I  paused  as  I  passed  the  staircase, 
gazing  up  at  the  old  woman's  window,  filled  with  an  intense 
resentment  against  her  piety  and  greed. 
192 


The  Death  Mask 

''I  crossed  the  yard  and  ascended  the  steps  down  which 
I  had  been  flung.  The  key  of  the  studio  lay  in  a  place 
only  known  to  Burge  and  myself,  but,  to  my  dismay,  I  dis- 
covered that  Burge  had  removed  it.  Almost  at  the  same 
moment  I  saw  that  the  door  had  been  burst  open.  Obvi- 
ously, great  violence  had  been  used,  for  the  lock,  a  stout 
one,  was  shattered  and  the  wood  about  it  splintered.  I 
went  in.  The  moon  was  shining  as  it  shines  now.  And  the 
light  from  the  window  in  the  roof  fell  upon  Burge's  picture. 
Monsieur — it  was  slashed  and  mutilated  beyond  descrip- 
tion.    .     .     . 

"Of  course,  this  was  the  work  of  Jan.  And,  believe 
me,  Monsieur,  his  hideous  violence,  his  devil  of  destruction, 
drove  the  fiend  out  of  me.  I  realised  instantly  that  Jan, 
ignorant,  stupid,  primitive,  had  divined  a  revenge  sweeter 
than  mine.  I  had  not  lived  with  Burge  for  three  years 
without  finding  out  that  his  art  was  dearer  to  him  than 
life.  Jan,  I  reflected,  had  done  me  a  service  for  which  I 
must  thank  him.  .  .  . 

''And  then — ah,  my  God! — that  lamentable  cry  sufifused 
my  thoughts  with  a  dolorous  suspicion  which  ripened  almost 
instantly  into  certainty.  The  savage  who  thrust  a  knife 
into  the  incomparable  beauty  of  the  picture  had  not  stayed 
his  hand  tiiere.  .  .  . 

"I  ran  back  to  the  foot  of  the  staircase  leading  to  Claire's 
room.  Here,  upon  the  first  step  I  found  a  shred  of  canvas. 
I  ascended  the  stairs,  distracted  with  horror.  The  door  at 
the  top,  like  the  door  of  the  studio,  had  been  burst  open. 
I  entered  a  small  passage  and  paused  before  Claire's 
door.  ... 

'T  cannot  tell  how  long  I  stood  there,  the  sv/eat  pouring 
from  my  skin,  not  daring  to  cross  the  threshold,  yet 
sensible  that  I  must.  .  .  . 

"When  I  pushed  open  the  door,  all  was  quiet  and  peace- 

193 


Some  Happenings 

ful.  At  the  other  end  of  the  room  was  a  lit  clos,  and  on  it 
lay  Claire — seemingly  asleep.  I  could  just  see  her  face  in 
profile,  her  brow,  nose  and  chin  white  against  the  shadows. 

"Monsieur,"  his  voice  sank  to  a  hoarse  whisper,  *'as  I  was 
thanking  God  that  all  was  well  with  her,  I  saw  the  handle 
of  a  knife  above  her  bosom !  And  I  recognised  it  for  mine : 
a  misericorde  I  had  bought  at  Vannes. 

"There  comes  a  moment  in  the  lives  of  all  unfortunates, 
when  mind  and  body  part  company.  I  cannot  tell  you 
what  happened  next,  for  at  the  moment  when  I  recognised 
that  knife,  something  seemed  to  snap  in  my  brain.  I  awoke 
to  find  myself  in  a  padded  cell.  .  .  . 

*'And  then  followed  my  trial  for  the  murder  of  Claire. 
Monsieur  knows  that  in  my  country  the  innocent  must  prove 
their  innocence.  And  I  could  prove  nothing.  Burge,  of 
course,  believed  me  guilty.  He  made  certain  that  I  had 
destroyed  first  his  picture,  and  then  Claire.  He  testified 
against  me.  And  his  evidence  sent  me  to  the  heat,  the  flies, 
the  fever  of  New  Caledonia.  .  .  . 

"It  was  easy  for  Jan  Taric  to  prove  an  alibi.  His  brother 
— they  stand  by  each  other,  the  Bretons — swore  that  Jan  had 
spent  the  early  part  of  the  night  in  his  company  at  a  wine- 
shop. After  midnight,  they  had  sailed  together  in  a  senagot 
to  some  fishing-grounds,  whence  they  returned  next  morn- 
ing with  a  big  catch  of  mullet.  Last  year,  Jan  died  of  pneu- 
monia, and  dying  confessed  his  crime.    I  was  released.  .  .  . 

"Monsieur,  I  had  never  doubted  that  I  would  be  released. 
That  conviction  had  sustained  me  when  men  stronger  than 
I — died.  I  would  be  released  sooner  or  later,  and  then  I 
would  kill  Burge.  I  came  home  to  kill  him.  I  traced  him 
to  London,  I  found  him  famous — and " . 

"And  dead,"  said  L 

"Monsieur,  he  was  aHve  a  year  ago.  Well,  it  was  cer- 
tain that  he  would  not  recognise  me.  But,  Monsieur,  I 
194 


The  Death  Mask 

never  thought  it  possible  that  I  should  fail  to  recognise  him. 
He  had  changed  as  I  had  changed;  the  wreck  of  what  he 
had  been.  The  Burge  that  I  had  sworn  I  would  kill  was 
not.  None  the  less,  my  purpose  remained  inflexible.  I  went 
to  his  studio,  and  offered  myself  as  a  model.  Ah — you  re- 
member now.  You  never  met  me,  but  you  have  seen  my 
face  in  one  of  Burge's  pictures.  I  posed  to  him  for  a  fort- 
night. I  bided  my  time,  knowing  that  it  would  come.  It 
came,  of  course.  One  afternoon,  he  was  tired.  He  went 
into  the  room  next  the  studio  to  lie  down.  I  was  told  to 
wait.  Presently,  I  heard  him  breathing  heavily  in  his  sleep. 
I  crept  into  the  room.  Burge  lay  upon  a  couch — at  my 
mercy.  .  .  . 

*'At  that  moment.  Monsieur,  I  saw  the  cast,  hanging  above 
his  head,  looking  down  upon  him,  pleading  for  him,  pro- 
tecting him.  For  the  moment  I  thought  Claire  had  come  to 
life.  Then  I  knew  that  Burge  must  have  taken  it  from  her 
dead  face.  Monsieur,  I  hated  him  then,  and  I  hate  him 
now,  but  I  could  not  kill  him.  I  turned  from  the  couch 
and  walked  to  the  door.  At  the  last  I  glanced  at  the  head 
upon  the  wall.  And  then  I  saw  the  smile,  the  smile  which 
had  triumphed  over  death.  .  .  . 

"Monsieur,  there  is  nothing  more  to  tell  .  .  ." 

When  he  had  finished,  the  supreme  disaster  of  his  life 
struck  me  dumb.  He  repeated  the  last  phrase:  "There  is 
nothing  more  to  tell." 

''Burge  is  dead  and  you  are  alive,"  I  said  slowly.  Then, 
as  he  stared  at  me,  not  understanding,  I  added :  "The  doc- 
tors were  unable  to  say  what  killed  him.  He  suffered  from 
no  organic  disease,  he  never  married;  he  never  painted  a 
woman.  What  is  implied?  Can  you  doubt,  can  any  man 
doubt,  that  remorse  killed  him,  inch  by  inch,  ruthlessly,  in- 
exorably ?    I  found  the  cast  in  his  hands  a  few  hours  before 

195 


Some  Happenings 

he  died.  He  held  it  as  you  hold  it,  tenderly  yet  firmly,  as  if 
loath  to  let  it  go.  The  dead  entered  the  heart  which  had 
closed  itself  against  the  living.  Take  the  cast.  It  is  yours. 
In  time,  if  not  now,  you  will  interpret,  as  Burge  did,  its  true 
message." 

The  poor  fellow  stared  at  the  mask;  then  he  stammered 
out:    *'What  did  it  mean  to  Burge?" 

^'Forgiveness,"  I  answered. 


196 


XII 

THE  LACQUER  CABINET 

OUINNEY  chuckled  as  he  reread  the  letter  which  of- 
fered him  a  thousand  pounds  for  his  cherished  lacquer 
cabinet,  and  he  kept  on  rubbing  his  yellow,  wrinkled  hands 
and  muttering:  'Tike  to  have  it,  wouldn't  you?  But  you 
won't,  my  man.  No,  by  gum,  not  if  you  offered  double  the 
money !" 

He  was  alone  in  the  sanctuary  of  his  best  things.  The 
heavy  shutters  were  up,  a  wood  fire  glowed  as  if  with  pleas- 
ure upon  a  steel  fender  of  the  best  Adam's  period.  The 
electric  lights  in  amber-coloured  globes  shone  softly, 
caressing  the  Chippendale  furniture  and  throwing  delicate 
shadows  upon  the  Aubusson  carpet.  Only  the  elect  entered 
this  famous  room,  and  every  article  in  it  was  known  and 
beloved  by  the  great  collectors  who  dealt  with  Quinney. 
The  passion  for  beautiful  things  was  in  his  blood.  His 
father  had  started  a  small  curiosity  shop  in  Salisbury,  and 
Quinney  himself,  as  a  boy  of  ten,  used  to  gloat  over  the 
Ming  figures,  and  touch  them  furtively  in  flagrant  disobedi- 
ence of  rules.  After  his  father's  death  he  had  moved  to 
London  and  bought  a  fine  Georgian  house  in  Soho,  which  he 
had  gradually  filled  with  masterpieces.  He  was  never  tired 
of  gazing  at  them  with  enraptured  eyes.  And  he  refused,  as 
he  grew  older  and  richer,  to  part  with  the  gems  of  his  col- 
lection. Nobody,  not  even  Quinney,  knew  what  the  con- 
tents of  this  particular  room  were  worth.  Beside  himself, 
only  two  persons  entered  it — his  daughter,  Posy,  and  his 
principal  assistant,  James  Migott,  a  young  man  with  a  nose 

197 


Some  Happenings 

almost  as  keen  as  Quinney's  for  beauty,  and  a  fine  pair  of 
eyes  which,  in  contrast  to  Quinney's,  dwelt  lovingly  upon 
what  was  animate  as  well  as  inanimate. 

Quinney,  from  being  much  by  himself,  had  acquired  the 
habit  of  thinking  aloud;  and,  although  his  surroundings 
were  Attic,  his  speech  remained  rudely  Doric.  As  he  tore 
up  the  millionaire's  letter  he  muttered:  "Wonderful  man 
I  am!  To  think  that  I  should  live  to  refuse  an  offer  of  a 
thousand  pounds  for  that  cabinet !  Sometimes  I'm  surprised 
at  myself.     By  gum,  I  am!" 

He  approached  the  lacquer  cabinet,  a  superb  example  of 
the  best  Japanese  art  of  the  eighteenth  century,  black  and 
gold,  with  gold  storks  exquisitely  delineated  flying  amongst 
golden  flowers.  The  petals  of  the  flowers  were  made  of 
thin  sheets  of  pure  gold  let  into  the  lacquer.  The  stand 
upon  which  it  stood  was  English,  with  curved  ball  and  claw 
legs,  also  a  miracle  of  craftsmanship.  Nothing  stood  upon 
the  cabinet  except  a  large  jar  of  the  rare  Kang-shi  famille 
noire  porcelain.  The  inside  of  the  cabinet  was  as  lavishly 
decorated  as  the  outside,  and  it  was  signed  with  the  name 
of  the  greatest  of  Japanese  artists.  The  American  mil- 
lionaire had  asked  for  a  copy  of  this  signature. 

Quinney  gloated  over  the  decoration  for  at  least  five  min- 
utes ;  and  then  he  noticed  that  the  key  was  missing.  Nothing 
was  kept  in  the  cabinet,  and  the  lock,  possibly,  was  the 
only  part  of  it  which  could  be  criticised,  for  a  child  could 
have  picked  it  with  a  hairpin.  Quinney's  eyes  wandered 
to  the  Kang-shi  jar,  and  presently  he  took  it  lovingly  into 
his  hands,  stroking  it,  enjoying  voluptuously  the  texture  of 
the  paste.  He  put  his  tongue  to  it,  an  infallible  test;  and 
from  long  practice  he  could  have  told  you,  had  he  been 
blind,  that  the  temperature  of  the  porcelain  and  its  texture 
were  confirmation  stronger  than  any  marks  of  quality  and 
198 


The  Lacquer  Cabinet 

date.  Then  he  thrust  his  hand  into  the  interior  to  satisfy 
himself  for  the  thousandth  time  of  its  amazing  finish. 

Inside  the  jar  was  the  key  of  the  cabinet ! 

This  astonished  him,  because  he  was  living  in  a  world 
from  which  the  surprising  had  been  rigorously  eliminated. 
Why  was  the  key  of  the  cabinet  hidden  in  the  jar?  Who 
had  placed  it  there?     Posy — or  James  Migott? 

He  sat  down  upon  the  finest  Chippendale  settee  in  the 
world  to  reflect  upon  this  incident.  Oddly  enough,  it  dis- 
turbed him,  although  it  was  reasonable  to  suppose  that  his 
daughter  intended  to  tell  him  where  she  had  put  the  key, 
which  certainly  fitted  the  lock  too  loosely  and  had  been 
known  to  fall  out  of  it. 

Finally,  he  decided  that  Posy,  good  girl,  had  chosen  an 
excellent  place  for  the  key ;  but  she  ought  to  have  told  him. 
He  would  speak  to  her  on  the  morrow. 

He  put  the  key  back  into  the  jar,  and  as  he  did  so  a  clock 
began  to  chime  the  hour  of  midnight.  Ouinney  listened  to 
the  silvery  bells  with  the  same  enraptured  expression  which 
the  gold  petals  upon  the  cabinet  evoked.  He  reflected  that 
time  passed  too  nimbly  when  a  man  was  perfectly  happy. 
As  a  rule,  he  went  to  bed  at  half-past  eleven,  but  the  Amer- 
ican's letter  had  engrossed  his  attention  unduly.  The  man 
wanted  the  cabinet  so  tremendously,  and  this  lust  for  an- 
other's possession  was  well  understood  by  Quinney,  for  he 
sufifered  cruelly  from  it  himself.  There  were  bits  in  the 
Museums  which  he  would  have  stolen  without  compunc- 
tion, could  he  have  "lifted"  them  without  fear  of  detection. 

He  switched  off  the  electric  light,  and  by  the  faint  glow 
of  the  fire  turned  to  mount  the  stairs  leading  to  his  bed- 
room. But  he  paused  on  the  threshold  of  his  room,  for  a 
last  glance  at  the  sanctuary.  Some  of  the  things  he  would 
have  liked  to  kiss,  and  this  sentiment  seemed  to  wax 
stronger  with  advancing  years.    He  never  left  his  wonderful 

199 


Some  Happenings 

room  without  reflecting  sadly  that  the  day  would  inevitably 
come  when  he  would  have  to  leave  it  forever. 

At  this  moment  he  heard  approaching  footsteps — soft, 
stealthy  footsteps,  which  might  be  those  of  a  midnight  rob- 
ber! 

Quinney  was  no  coward,  and  he  was  comfortably  aware 
that  his  precious  things  would  not  be  likely  to  tempt  the 
ordinary  burglar,  because  of  the  difficulty  in  disposing  of 
them.  Noiselessly  he  withdrew  to  the  outer  room,  which 
held  the  furniture  and  china  that  could  be  bought.  From 
the  darkness  of  this  outer  room  he  could  see  without  being 
seen. 

He  nearly  betrayed  his  presence  when  Posy  entered  the 
sanctuary,  clothed  in  a  silk  dressing-gown,  with  her  pretty 
hair  in  two  long  plaits.  What  on  earth  was  the  girl  up  to? 
She  glided  across  the  Aubusson  carpet,  upon  which  great 
ladies  of  the  French  pre-Revolution  period  had  stood,  and 
approached  the  lacquer  cabinet.  She  thrust  a  white,  slender 
arm  into  the  great  jar,  took  from  it  the  key,  unlocked  the 
cabinet,  opened  it,  waited  a  moment,  with  her  back  to  her 
father,  who  was  not  able  to  see  what  she  was  doing,  closed 
and  locked  the  cabinet,  replaced  the  key  in  the  jar,  and 
flitted  away  as  silently  as  she  had  come ! 

Quinney  wiped  the  dew  of  bewilderment  from  his  high 
but  narrow  brow. 

The  girl  must  be  crazy ! 

He  waited  till  he  heard  the  closing  of  her  door  upstairs ; 
then  he  turned  on  the  light  and  went  to  the  cabinet.  In  the« 
second  drawer  he  found  a  letter,  which  he  read. 

My  Own  Blue  Bird! 

Quinney  paused.    He  had  not  seen  Maeterlinck's  famous 
play,  but  Posy  had  raved  about  it — with  absurd  enthusiasm, 
200 


The  Lacquer  Cabinet 

so  he  had  thought  at  the  time — and  he  remembered  that 
the  Blue  Bird  represented  happiness. 


"My  Own  Blue  Bird, 

"It  was  splendidly  clever  of  you  to  think  of  using 
that  stupid  old  cabinet  as  a  pillar-box,  and  the  fact  that 
we  are  corresponding  under  the  very  nose  of  father  makes 
the  whole  affair  deliriously  exciting  and  romantic.  I  should 
like  to  see  his  funny  old  face,  if  he  could  read  this.  .  .  ." 

"You  shall,  my  girl,"  thought  Quinney,  grimly.  He  knew 
that  the  "Blue  Bird"  must  be  James  Migott,  drat  him !  It 
could  be  nobody  else.  Quinney  had  guarded  Posy  very 
jealously.  James  was  not  permitted  to  speak  to  her  ex- 
cept in  his  presence.  And  no  letter  to  her,  coming  in  the 
ordinary  way,  would  have  escaped  his  notice.  So !  this 
young  man,  whom  he  had  trained  to  be  a  faithful  servant, 
was  carrying  on  a  clandestine  love  affair  with  his  only 
child  and  using  the  lacquer  cabinet  as  a  pillar-box?  He 
wiped  his  mouth  with  the  silk  handkerchief  which  he  used 
to  remove  dust  from  his  china,  and  his  fingers  trembled,  for 
he  was  quivering  with  rage.    Then  he  finished  the  letter: — 

"We  have  got  to  be  most  awfully  careful,  because  if  he 
saw  me  talking  to  you,  except  about  his  ridiculous  business, 
he  would  simply  chatter  with  rage.  And,  make  no  mistake, 
my  feeHngs  wouldn't  count.  I'm  not  nearly  so  dear  to  him 
as  that  Chelsea  figure  by  Roubiliac.  He  only  cares  for 
things,  not  a  brass  farthing  for  persons.  But,  oh,  Jim,  I 
care  more  for  you  than  all  the  things  in  the  world,  and  I 
have  had  no  love  since  mother  died.  Think  of  what  I 
have  to  make  up ! 

20 1 


Some  Happenings 

"I  shall  get  your  answer  to  this  when  father  is  having 
his  cigar  after  lunch. 

"Your  loving, 

"Posy." 


Quinney  put  the  billet  back  in  the  drawer,  muttering  to 
himself,  "I  shall  get  the  dog's  answer  before  lunch.  He 
sha'n't  complain  that  I  gave  him  no  opportunity."  Grind- 
ing his  teeth,  he  consigned  James  Migott  to  the  nethermost 
Hades;  and  at  the  same  moment  he  decided  that  the  Yan- 
kee— confound  him  also! — should  have  the  cabinet.  For 
evermore  he  would  hate  the  sight  of  it.  As  for  James 
Migott,  the  Blue  Bird,  he'd  be  blue  indeed  within  twenty- 
four  hours.  Blue  Bird,  indeed!  A  serpent!  A  crawling 
snake ! 

He  went  to  bed,  but  sleep  refused  to  soothe  him,  al- 
though he  dismissed  James  Migott  from  his  thoughts,  which 
dwelt  with  concentration  upon  Posy.  Had  he  not  given  the 
best  of  everything  to  the  ungrateful  baggage?  And  in  re- 
turn— this!  She  dared  to  speak  of  his  business  as  "ridicu- 
lous." The  adjective  bit  deep  into  his  mind.  Ridiculous? 
What  the  devil  did  she  mean?  When  his  father  died  the 
business  was  worth  at  most  eight  thousand  pounds.  To-day 
the  contents  of  the  sanctuary  alone  would  fetch  at  Christie's 
a  round  fifty  thousand,  if  the  right  people  were  bidding. 
And  they  would  be  bidding.  From  the  four  quarters  of 
the  earth  they  would  come,  to  bid  against  each  other  for 
the  famous  Quinney  collection.  Ridiculous!  Suppose  he 
left  everything  to  the  nation,  thereby  immortalising  himself  ? 
The  Quinney  Gallery!  That  sounded  well.  Suppose  he 
offered  the  gift  during  his  lifetime?  Would  his  gracious 
Sovereign  speak  of  his  business  as  ridiculous?  All  right. 
If  this  idiot  of  a  girl  cared  for  James  Migott  more  than 
for  his  collections,  she  might  have  him — and  be  hanged 

202 


The  Lacquer  Cabinet 

to  her!  Would  the  dog  want  her  without  the  collections? 
He  smiled  grimly  at  the  thought. 

Next  day  he  rose  at  the  usual  time  and  breakfasted  alone 
with  Posy,  who  smiled  deceitfully,  as  if  she  were  the  best 
daughter  in  the  kingdom.  He  looked  at  her  sourly,  contrast- 
ing her  with  the  Chelsea  shepherdess,  modelled  by  the  illus- 
trious Frenchman.  She  was  nearly  as  pretty,  but  common 
pottery,  not  porcelain,  not  the  pate  tendre  beloved  by  con- 
noisseurs. He  remarked  a  melting,  luscious  glaze  about  her 
eyes.  She  was  thinking  of  her  Blue  Bird,  the  shameless 
baggage.  At  nine  James  Migott  appeared,  punctual  to  the 
minute.    Quinney  said  to  him,  curtly : — 

"I  am  going  out.  You  had  better  overhaul  those  Chip- 
pendale chairs  in  my  room.  I  am  thinking  of  having  that 
old  needlework  cleaned.  Get  it  off  the  chairs. very  care- 
fully." 

''Right  you  are !"  exclaimed  James. 

There  was  the  same  shining  glaze  in  his  blue  eyes  as  he 
met  frankly  the  gaze  of  his  employer.  It  would  not  be  easy 
to  replace  James.  He  could  be  trusted  with  things,  but 
not  with  persons.  His  exclamation,  ''Right  you  are !"  tickled 
agreeably  Quinney's  vanity.  He  was  nearly  always  right, 
everybody  admitted  that.  No  big  dealer  had  made  fewer 
mistakes.  That  Germ.an  fellow,  who  had  made  such  an 
ass  of  himself  about  that  wax  figure,  he  was  ridiculous,  if 
you  like.  How  Quinney  had  laughed  at  his  egregious 
blunder ! 

At  half-past  twelve  he  returned.  James  Migott  had  re- 
moved the  precious  needlework  without  breaking  a  thread. 
His  employer  grunted  approval.  "You  love  this  business  ?" 
he  asked. 

"I  like  it,"  said  James. 

He  left  the  house  to  get  his  midday  meal  at  a  neigh- 
bouring restaurant  in  Dean  Street.    Upstairs  Posy  was  play- 

203 


Some  Happenings 

ing  Thalberg's  "Home,  Sweet  Home"  with  a  firmness  of 
touch  and  brilliancy  of  technique  which  indicated  that  the 
money  lavished  upon  her  musical  education  had  not  been 
wasted.  With  the  arpeggios  rippling  through  his  mind, 
Quinney  opened  the  lacquer  cabinet.  Yes ;  James  had  taken 
Posy's  letter,  and  another — written  upon  the  business  note- 
paper — lay  in  its  place.  The  lovers  had  not  troubled  to  close 
the  envelopes,  so  secure  did  they  fancy  themselves  in  their 
fool's  paradise. 

Quinney  read  as  follows : — 

"My  Sweetest  Posy, 

"I  believe  that  your  father  does  really  love  you,  al- 
though he  may  not  show  it.  He's  a  true  lover  of  beauty  in 
any  form,  and  it's  hardly  possible  that  he  doesn't  prize  you 
as  the  most  beautiful  of  all  his  beautiful  possessions.  I  am 
doing  my  best  to  please  him  and  to  win  his  confidence.  As 
you  say,  we  must  be  very  careful  and  very  patient,  but  he's 
taught  me  how  to  wait  for  the  things  worth  having.  I  know 
that  I  must  wait  and  work  for  you. 

"Your  faithful, 

"Jim." 

Quinney  read  the  letter  twice  and  then  replaced  it  in  the 
cabinet.  Throughout  luncheon  he  said  little,  but  stared  fur- 
tively at  his  daughter,  wondering  whether  James  Migott 
— no  mean  judge — was  right  in  affirming  that  of  all  his  pos- 
sessions she  was  the  most  beautiful.  He  had  intended  to 
speak  to  Posy  and  James  after  luncheon;  he  had  planned 
a  little  dramatic  scene,  during  which  he  would  appear  at 
the  moment  when  Posy  was  taking  the  letter  from  the  cabi- 
net. Then,  before  she  had  time  to  collect  her  wits,  he 
would  summon  the  Blue  Bird  and  deal  trenchantly  with 
the  guilty  pair. 

Presently  he  said,  quietly : — 

2CJ. 


The  Lacquer  Cabinet 

"Fve  had  an  offer  of  a  thousand  pounds  for  the  lacquer 
cabinet  from  Dupont  Jordan." 

She  answered,  composedly,  ''Are  you  going  to  sell  it?" 

^Terhaps." 

Lord !  What  an  actress  she  was  !  And  not  yet  twenty ! 
When  and  where  and  how  did  she  learn  to  wear  this  mask  ? 
He  eyed  her  with  wrinkled  interrogation,  asking  himself 
dozens  of  questions.  Had  she  always  pretended  with  him? 
What  was  she  really  like — inside?  As  a  collector  of  pre- 
cious things,  he  had  acquired  the  habit  of  examining  me- 
ticulously every  article  of  vertu,  searching  for  the  inimitable 
marks,  the  patine,  not  to  be  reproduced  by  the  most  cunning 
craftsman,  the  indelible  handwriting  of  genius  and  time. 
But  he  had  never  searched  for  such  marks  in  his  daughter. 
When  he  lit  his  cigar,  she  went  out  of  the  room  and  he  sat 
silent,  not  enjoying  his  cigar,  wondering  what  her  face 
looked  like  as  she  read  the  letter  from  her  own  Blue  Bird. 
What  James  Migott  had  written  gave  him  pause.  He  de- 
cided to  read  more  of  the  correspondence  before  he  pro- 
nounced judgment. 

That  afternoon  he  made  a  list  of  the  "gems"  which  might 
be  offered  to  the  nation  or  left  to  it  as  the  Quinney  bequest. 
At  midnight  Posy  would  descend  from  her  room  and  place 
another  billet  in  the  pillar-box.  The  pillar-box!  To  what 
base  uses  might  a  gold  lacquer  cabinet  degenerate ! 

He  left  the  door  of  his  bedroom  ajar,  and  at  midnight 
he  heard  the  faint  rustling  of  her  dressing-gown  as  she  stole 
downstairs  and  up  again.  At  one,  when  he  made  certain 
.that  she  was  asleep,  he  descended  to  his  room  and  read  the 
second  letter : — 

*'Darling  Jim, 

'Tather  never  cared  for  me.    If  I  died  to-morrow  he 
would  forget  me  in  a  week.    Luckily  I  have  you,  but  he  will 

205 


Some  Happenings 

expect  me  to  choose  between  him  and  you.  The  great  over- 
whelming surprise  of  his  Hfe  will  be  when  he  discovers  that 
I  have  chosen  you,  because,  incredible  as  it  may  seem,  he 
believes  that  he  has  done  his  duty  by  me  just  as  he  believed 
that  he  did  his  duty  by  my  dear  mother.  He  will  never, 
never  know  how  he  appears  to  others. 

"Your  ever-loving, 
"Posy." 

Quinney  replaced  the  letter,  went  into  the  dining-room, 
and  drank  a  glass  of  brown  sherry.  He  preferred  brown 
sherry  because  it  exhibited  the  exact  tint  of  faded  mahog- 
any, the  tint  so  baffling  to  fakers  of  old  furniture.  As  he 
sipped  his  wine  he  told  himself  that  the  girl  was  a  liar.  He 
had  done  his  duty  by  her  and  by  his  dead  wife.  He  had 
denied  them  nothing,  gratified  their  whims,  exalted  each 
high  above  the  station  in  which  they  had  been  born.  Then 
he  went  to  bed,  to  pass  another  wretched  night,  comparing 
himself  to  Lear  and  other  fathers  who  had  begotten  thank- 
less children. 

Posy  expressed  concern  at  his  appearance  next  morning. 
He  was  yellow  as  a  guinea,  and  his  eyes  were  congested. 

"There's  nothing  the  matter  with  me,"  he  growled. 

His  emphasis  on  the  personal  pronoun  reminded  Posy 
that  her  father  had  made  no  claims  upon  her  as  ministering 
angel.  He  had  never  been  ill,  never  **sorry  for  himself," 
to  use  that  familiar  expression  in  a  new  and  significant 
sense.  To-day  he  looked  very  sorry  for  himself.  She  said 
SQ,  tentatively. 

"I  am  sorry  for  myself,"  he  declared. 

He  went  out  and  walked  in  the  Park,  smoking  his  pipe 
and  muttering  to  himself:  "I'll  dish  the  dog.  Before  sun- 
set he*ll  be  wishing  he'd  never  been  born.  Good  as  I've 
been  to  both  of  'em!  Best  father  as  ever  lived,  I  do  be- 
206 


The  Lacquer  Cabinet 

lieve."  Half  an  hour  passed  in  computing  what  Posy  had 
cost  him.  Fifteen  hundred  pounds  in  hard  cash.  The  same 
sum  invested,  say,  in  old  Irish  glass  would  have  trebled 
itself.  Yes,  by  gum!  Posy  represented  a  snug  five-thou- 
sand, the  baggage ! 

When  he  returned  to  his  house  he  was  ripe  for  battle, 
thirsting  for  it.  Three  clients  were  waiting  impatiently. 
He  "socked"  it  to  them.  Asked  big  prices  and  got  them, 
a  salve  to  abraded  pride.  James  Migott  was  much  im- 
pressed. 

"Nobody  like  you,  sir,  to  sell  stuff,"  he  ventured  to  re- 
mark. 

Quinney  snarled  back: — 

*'Yes,  my  lad,  even  if  I  do  say  it,  there  ain't  my  equal  in 
London — that  means  the  world.  Best  o'  fathers  I  been, 
ain't  I?" 

James  nodded. 

"Done  my  duty.  That's  a  thought  to  stick  to  one's  ribs 
—hay?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Never  can  remember  the  day  when  I  couldn't  say  that. 
Square,  too,  I've  been  within  reasonable  bounds,  though  I 
have  made  ignorance — as  just  now — pay  for  my  knowledge. 
I  know  a  lot,  my  lad — more'n  you  think  for." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  James. 

That  morning  the  staff  had  a  sultry  time  of  it.  Everybody 
agreed  that  the  governor's  tongue  had  an  edge  to  it  keener 
than  the  east  wind,  which  happened  to  be  blowing  bitterly. 
Posy,  at  the  piano,  was  surprised  to  find  her  sire  standing 
beside  her,  with  a  malicious  grin  upon  his  thin  face. 

"Can  you  cook?"  he  asked. 

"Cook?    Me?    You  know  I  can't  cook,  father." 

"Not  much  of  a  hand  with  your  needle  either,  are  ye?" 

"No." 

207 


Some  Happenings 

"Um!  They  tell  me  that  our  Royal  Princesses  have  to 
learn  such  things,  willy-nilly,  because  revolutions  do  hap- 
pen— sometimes." 

Posy  stared  at  him,  thinking  to  herself:  *'His  liver  is 
out  of  whack,  and  no  mistake." 

Quinney  returned  to  his  sanctuary,  feeling  that  he  was 
in  form.    The  affair  should  be  handled  to  rights. 

*T'll  fix  'em,"  he  growled.  "I'll  sweep  the  cobwebs  out  o' 
their  silly  noddles,  by  gum  I  will !" 

At  lunch  he  harped  back  to  the  primitive  duties  of  wom- 
en, rubbing  in  his  words  and  salting  them  properly. 

"Look  ye  here,  my  girl.  It's  just  struck  me  that  Fve  been 
to  blame  in  makin'  you  so  bloomin'  ornamental." 

"Come,  father,  I  didn't  get  my  good  looks  from  you." 

"Handsome  is  as  handsome  does.    Ever  heard  that  ?" 

"Once  or  twice." 

Quinney  grinned  as  he  drank  his  second  glass  of  brown 
sherry.  Very  rarely  did  he  exceed  one  glass  of  wine  in  the 
middle  of  the  day.  Then  he  lit  his  cigar  and  settled  himself 
in  an  easy-chair  near  the  fire.  Posy  went  upstairs,  singing 
softly  as  she  went. 

"Chock-full  o'  deceit  that  girl  is !  Oozin'  from  every  pore. 
Stamps  upstairs  singin'  like  a  lark ;  crawls  down  like  a  viper. 
Oh,  my  Lord !" 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  By  his  reckoning  Posy  was 
nearly  due  in  the  sanctuary.  James  was  whistling  in  the 
basement. 

"Whistle  away,  you  dog!"  he  muttered.  "I'm  agoing  to 
call  the  next  tune." 

He  had  not  long  to  wait.  Posy  came  downstairs,  entered 
the  sanctuary,  opened  the  lacquer  cabinet,  and  was  grasping 
Jim's  letter,  when  Quinney,  who  had  approached  noiselessly 
from  behind,  tapped  her  on  the  shoulder. 

"What  are  you  up  to,  my  girl  ?" 
208 


The  Lacquer  Cabinet 

"I  was  just  having  a  look  at  the  inside  of  the  cabinet. 
Thought  of  rubbing  it  over." 

"Did  you?    What  you  got  in  your  hand  there?    Paper?" 

"It's  something  b-belonging  to  m-me,"  stammered  the  un- 
happy maid. 

"What's  in  that  cabinet  belongs  to  me,  my  girl.  Hand  it 
over." 

Posy  slipped  the  letter  into  the  bosom  of  her  gown,  and 
stared  defiantly  at  her  father. 

"Sure  it's  yours?"  he  asked. 

"Quite  sure ;  a  private  affair." 

"Keep  your  private  papers  in  my  cabinet — hay?" 

"Sometimes." 

Posy  was  now  more  at  her  ease,  much  to  Quinney's  de- 
light. The  higher  the  baggage  mounted  the  farther  she 
would  have  to  fall. 

"Wait  a  moment,  my  girl." 

He  walked  to  the  foot  of  the  staircase  and  called  out: 
"James  Migott !" 

A  distant  voice  replied: — 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Come  you  up  here,  my  lad.    Quick!" 

James  appeared,  rather  flushed.  His  colour  deepened 
when  he  saw  Posy  standing  close  to  the  pillar-box. 

"Like  to  take  it  sittin'  or  standin'?"  inquired  Quinney, 
with  marked  politeness. 

"Take  what?"  inquired  Posy. 

"The  dose  Pm  goin'  to  give  ye.  I  prefer  to  stand.  You 
ain't  fit,  not  by  a  long  chalk,  to  sit  on  such  chairs,  but 
I've  always  been  a  considerate  man." 

James  and  Posy  stood  where  they  were.  Posy  was  very 
pale,  and  her  pretty  fingers  trembled. 

Quinney  glared  at  them,  and  the  peroration  he  had  pre- 

209 


Some  Happenings 

pared  vanished  to  the  limbo  of  unspoken  speeches.  He 
said,  savagely: — 

'^Fallen  in  love  with  each  other — hay?" 

"Yes/'  replied  Posy,  without  a  moment's  hesitation. 
James  said,  with  commendable  promptness :     "Same  here." 

"A  pretty  couple  you  make,  by  gum!  Intentions  hon- 
ourable ?"  he  hissed  at  James. 

Posy  tossed  her  head.    James  answered,  politely: — 

"Quite." 

"Arranged  the  happy  day  yet?"  sneered  the  enraged 
Quinney. 

"Not  yet,  sir." 

"Ah !    Waitin',  maybe,  for  my  blessing  ?" 

Posy  burst  out  impetuously: — 

"Father,  I  love  him." 

"That  dog!" 

"Easy,  sir.  I've  served  you  like  a  dog  because  I  love 
her." 

At  this  the  brazen  pair  smiled  at  each  other.  Quinney's 
rage,  so  long  restrained,  rose  to  boiling  point. 

"Ain't  I  been  a  good  father  to  you?"  he  asked  Posy. 
"No  quibblin';  let's  have  the  God's  truth!  Ain't  I  been  a 
good  father  to  you  ?" 

"No,"  said  Posy. 

"What  you  say?" 

"I  said  'No.' » 

"Well,  I'm  blest!  Ain't  I  given  you  everything  a  girl 
wants  ?" 

"No." 

"That  puts  the  lid  on.  Of  all  the  shameless,  ungrate- 
ful hussies!  Five  thousand  pounds  you've  cost  me,  miss. 
Not  a  penny  less,  by  gum !  Now,  you  answer  straight.  It'd 
take  you  a  month  o'  Sundays  to  tell  what  I  have  given  you ; 
but  you  tell  me  what  I've  not  given  you?" 

2IO 


The  Lacquer  Cabinet 

"Love." 

"Eh?" 

**You  don't  love  me ;  you  never  have  loved  me.  You  love 
things."  She  waved  an  all-embracing  arm.  "Old  chairs, 
faded  tapestries,  cracked  china.  You  don't  love,  you  can't 
love,  persons." 

"Say  that  again.     I  want  it  to  soak  in." 

She  said  it  again,  with  amazing  calmness.  Quinney,  too 
confounded  to  deal  adequately  with  her,  turned  to  James. 

"Do  you  love  persons  too  ?" 

"That's  right." 

"Things  worth  their  weight  in  gold  don't  interest  you — 
hayr 

"They  interest  me,  but  I  don't  love  them." 

"Never  occurred  to  you,  did  it,  that  these  things  would 
belong  to  my  girl  some  day  ?" 

"It  may  have  occurred  to  me,  but  I  didn't  fall  in  love 
with  Posy  because  she  was  your  daughter." 

"Oh,  really?    You'd  take  her  as  she  stands — hay?" 

"Yes." 

"How  do  you  propose  to  support  her  ?" 

"That's  easy  answered.  Old  Cohen  wants  me.  You  pay 
me  three  pounds  a  week.  I'm  worth  ten  pounds,  and  Cohen 
is  willing  to  give  six  pounds,  not  to  mention  a  small  com- 
mission on  sales  and  purchases." 

Quinney  sat  down,  gasping.  He,  the  most  acute  /aluer 
of  his  generation,  had  never  appraised  these  two.  He  had 
always  considered  that  James  was  overpaid.  Old  Cohen 
must  be  mad.  Trembling  and  perspiring,  he  played  his 
trump  card. 

"Yr.u  can  have  her,"  he  shouted.  "Take  her  now — and 
go!" 

Posy  faltered:    "Father,  you  don't  mean  it?" 

211 


Some  Happenings 

"Yes,  I  do.  Let  him  take  you  away  if  he  wants  you  as 
you  are." 

He  was  certain  that  James  would  "back  down,"  and 
that  a  great  victory  was  impending.  But  James  repHed, 
without  hesitation : — 

"Come,  Posy!  My  mother  will  be  delighted  to  see  you. 
I'll  get  a  special  licence  this  afternoon." 

The  girl  held  up  her  head  proudly.  It  is  barely  possible 
that  till  this  moment  she  had  never  been  absolutely  sure  of 
James.     She  beamed  upon  him. 

"Oh,  Jim,"  she  exclaimed,  fervently,  "you  are  a  darling !" 

She  flung  herself  into  his  outstretched  arms,  and  they 
kissed  each  other,  quite  regardless  of  Mr.  Quinney.  He 
stared  about  him,  bewildered.     Then  he  said,  gaspingly : — 

"What  would  your  pore  mother  have  said?" 

Posy  released  herself  and  approached  her  father.  Pity 
shone  softly  in  her  eyes  as  she  asked,  gently : — 

"Do  you  vv^ant  to  know  what  mother  would  have  said?" 

"I'm  glad  she  was  spared  this,  pore  soul!"  ejaculated  the 
bereaved  man.    "God,  in  His  mercy,  took  her  in  time." 

"Do  you  want  to  know  what  mother  would  have  said  ?" 

She  repeated  the  question  in  a  deeper,  more  impressive 
tone. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Wait!" 

She  fled  upstairs.  During  her  absence  Quinney  wondered 
how  he  would  replace  James  Migott,  whom  he  had  trained 
so  diligently  from  tender  years.  The  dog  knew  so  much  that 
only  time  and  patience  and  experience  could  impart.  He 
had  always  intended  to  offer  James  a  very  small  share  in 
the  business. 

Posy  appeared  breathless,  and  carrying  a  sheet  of  paper 
in  her  hand. 

212 


The  Lacquer  Cabinet 

"Read  that,  father."  As  he  fumbled  for  his  spectacles, 
she  said,  softly,  "May  I  read  it  aloud?" 

"I  don't  care  what  you  do." 

But  in  his  heart  he  knew  that  this  was  a  lie.  He  did 
care.  The  conviction  stole  upon  him  that  they  had 
''bested"  him.  He  wanted  Posy  with  something  of  the 
hunger  which  seized  him  when  he  went  to  the  Gold  Room 
of  the  British  Museum  and  beheld  the  incomparable  Port- 
land Vase,  priceless  though  broken.  Then  he  heard  Posy's 
voice,  and  it  struck  him  for  the  first  time  that  it  was 
like  her  mother's.  The  similarity  of  form  and  feature  also 
was  startling.  He  grew  pale  and  tremulous,  for  it  seemed 
as  if  his  wife  had  come  back  from  the  dead.  When  he 
closed  his  eyes  he  could  imagine  that  she  was  speaking. 

"My  Darling  Little  Girl, 

"When  you  read  this  I  shall  be  dead.    I  want  to  tell 

you  before  I  go  something  about  your  father,  which  may 

save  you  much  unhappiness.    He  loved  me  dearly  once,  and 

he  used  to  tell  me  so.    And  then  he  grew  more  and  more 

absorbed  in  his  business,  and  now  he  is  so  wrapped  up  in  it 

that    I    greatly    fear   he   may   infect   you,   and   that,    like 

him,  you  may  come  to  believe  that  the  beauty  of  the  world 

is  to  be  found  in  sticks  and  stones.    To  me  they  are  just 

that — sticks  and  stones.    And  so,  when  the  time  comes  for 

you  to  marry,  be  sure  that  you  choose  a  man  who  loves  you 

for  yourself  and  whom  you  love  for  himself.     I  was  so 

happy  with  your  father  when  we  lived  in  a  cottage  in 

Salisbury;   I  have  been  so  unhappy  in  this   great  house 

filled  with  the  things  that  have  come  between  him  and  me. 

"My  old  servant  will  deliver  this  letter  to  you  when 

you  are  seventeen.     Read  it  sometimes,  and  keep  it  safe, 

for  it  is  all  that  I  have  to  leave  you.       ,,.^        ,     . 

Your  lovmg 

"Mother." 

213 


Some  Happenings 

Before  she  had  reached  the  end  Quinney  had  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands.  When  Posy's  soft  voi^ce  died  away 
he  made  no  sign.  She  beHeved  then  that  his  heart  was  dead 
indeed.  James  signed  to  her  to  come  with  him,  but  she 
gazed  sorrowfully  at  her  father,  with  the  tears  rolling  down 
her  cheeks. 

"Good-bye,"  she  faltered.  "You  don't  want  me,  and 
James  does." 

Quinney  lifted  his  head  and  sprang  to  his  feet.  The 
force  of  character  which  had  made  him  pre-eminent  in  his 
business  thrilled  in  his  voice  as  he  said,  authoritatively: — 

"I  do  want  you.  And  I  want  James.  I — I — I've  always 
held  on  tight  to  the  best,  and  I  shall  hold  on  to  you."  Then 
his  voice  failed  as  they  stared  at  him,  hardly  realising  what 
he  meant. 

"Give  me  your  mother's  letter  and  leave  me.'* 

They  went  out,  closing  the  door.  Quinney  read  the  let- 
ter through  and  gazed  at  the  things  which  had  come  be- 
tween him  and  the  writer.  Then  he  placed  the  letter  in  the 
lacquer  cabinet,  locked  it,  and  slipped  the  key  into  his  pocket. 
His  face  worked  strangely  as  he  tried  to  keep  back  the  tears 
which  were  softening  his  heart. 

He  muttered  brokenly : — 

"I  wonder  whether  the  pore  dear  soul  knows?" 


214 


XIII 

A  Breton  Love- Story 


PHILOMENE  CARVENNEC  entered  the  church  of 
Notre-Dame  des  Bonnes  Nouvelles  at  Rosporden,  fol- 
lowed by  a  man  clad  in  the  costume  of-  the  province — the 
bras  bragous,  the  high-frilled  collar,  the  stout  felt  hat,  and 
the  short  black  jacket  brilliant  with  embroidery  and  rows 
of  silver  buttons.  Leaning  against  the  wall,  the  man  fixed 
his  eyes  upon  the  maid. 

The  ancient  building,  grey  without  and  within,  was 
crowded  with  women  standing  erect  and  motionless.  Their 
dark  dresses,  heavy  with  velvet  bands,  accentuated  the  sil- 
ence and  the  gloom.  Suddenly  the  pilgrims  sank  to  their 
knees,  and  nothing  was  visible  save  a  sea  of  coifs  and  col- 
lars upon  which  the  light,  filtering  through  stained  glass, 
threw  opalescent  tints. 

**She  is  the  prettiest  of  all,"  murmured  Leon. 

After  the  ceremony,  as  Philomene  passed  beneath  the 
archway,  Leon  addressed  her:  "Has  Philomene  Carvennec 
no  word  of  welcome  for  an  old  friend?" 

"Leon!" 

*Tt  is  I.  My  days  of  slavery  are  over.  Come,  walk  with 
me  till  the  procession  forms." 

But  the  maiden  drew  back,  blushing  and  irresolute.     At. 
pardons    the    maidens    sit   together.      Leon    frowned    and 
strolled  on  alone.    As  he  pushed  through  the  crowd  many 
pressed  forward  to  greet  him,  to  shake  his  hand;  upon  all 
sides  Philomene  heard  his  name. 

215 


Some  Happenings 

"Leon  Bellec  carries  himself  like  a  hero." 

"Leon  has  fought  and  bled  for  Brittany." 

"The  President — name  of  a  name! — has  saluted  our 
Leon." 

"Leon  saved  Frangois  Goaper  at  the  risk  of  his  own  life 
when  the  bullets  were  falling — pif,  pafT 

"Aie,  aie,"  cried  the  women,  "he  is  a  brave  man." 

Philomene  sighed  as  she  seated  herself  with  the  other 
girls  upon  the  green  slope  to  the  north  of  the  church.  Be- 
low was  the  high  road,  gay  with  booths  and  crowded  with 
foot-passengers.  Sounds  of  revelry  floated  up  from  the 
liquor-shops.  Not  a  dozen  yards  distant  a  couple  of 
drunken  peasants  mocked  a  ballad-monger,  who  was  scream- 
ing out  the  chorus  of  a  popular  folk-song.  Hard-by  a  beg- 
gar exposed  loathsome  sores  to  curious  and  pitiful  eyes. 
Farther  down  the  road  two  sailors  were  fighting. 

Philomene,  accustomed  to  these  sights  and  sounds,  sat 
still,  her  toil-hardened  hands  crossed  upon  her  lap.  She 
regretted  the  lost  pleasure  of  a  walk  and  a  talk  with  the 
hero. 

"Look,  Philo !  There  is  Mere  Bellec.  Ah !  she  is  a  proud 
woman  to-day." 

The  mother  of  Leon,  the  famous  marieuse  of  Nizon,  was 
held  in  high  repute  as  a  matchmaker  of  tact,  ability  and 
honesty — one  who  selected  her  pairs  with  a  prescient  eye  to 
the  community  of  material  interests — her  own  not  ex- 
cepted, for  the  marriage  feasts  of  her  clients  were  always 
held  at  the  dame's  roadside  tavern.  Not  infrequently 
many  hundreds  of  guests  assisted,  and  each  paid  a  round 
five-franc  piece  for  his  entertainment.  The  margin  of 
profit  may  not  seem  large,  but  the  matchmaker  was  ac- 
counted, albeit  wrongly,  a  rich  woman.  Tall  like  her  only 
son,  grey-haired  but  keen-eyed,  she  made  a  large  impres- 
sion of  power — a  maitresse  femme  who  had  carried  bur- 
216 


A  Breton  Love-Story 

dens  in  her  time  and  carried  them  bravely,  uncomplain- 
ingly. Leon's  father,  long  dead,  had  proved  a  drunken,  dis- 
solute ne'er-do-well;  Leon  himself,  as  a  youth,  had  given 
his  mother  sore  anxiety, 

^'Qk — la — la!  See,  Philo!  Mere  Bellec  has  stopped  to 
talk  with  thy  father  and  old  Goaper." 

The  others  laughed  shrilly,  bantering  the  future  bride. 
It  was  known  that  Frangois  Goaper,  the  cripple,  whose  par- 
ents owned  fat  acres  around  Pont-Aven,  adored  her. 
Frangois  had  received  a  bullet  in  his  leg  and  another  in  his 
hip  while  Leon  was  carrying  him  out  of  action. 

"Frangois  Goaper,"  said  a  girl  from  Riec.  *Svill  never  run 
away  from  thee,  Philo.  That  leg  of  his  will  assure  his 
fidelity." 

"Rozenn,"  retorted  Philomene,  "is  jealous.  She  would 
like  to  get  married  herself.    It  is  time." 

"When  I  marry,"  retorted  the  other,  scornfully,  "  'twill  be 
a  man  like  Leon  Bellec,  not  a  cripple." 

Philomene  turned.  She  was  very  pale,  for  of  yore  gos- 
sip had  linked  the  name  of  Bellec  to  this  red-maned,  loud- 
voiced  slattern. 

"Frangois  Goaper,"  she  said  slowly,  "is  one  among  ten 
thousand,  and  the  girl  who  marries  him  will  be  lucky.  He 
will  not  go  to  Riec  for  a  wife — nor  will  Leon  Bellec." 

Rozenn  bit  her  lips.  Her  birthplace  had  an  unsavoury 
reputation. 

''Merci,  ma  belle/'  she  retorted,  quietly.  "I'll  not  forget 
your  kind  words." 

II 

A  week  later  Bellec  came  afoot  to  Nizon  through  the 
pretty  bois  d'amour,  along  the  winding  path  that  skirts  the 
Aven,  and  past  the  windmills  which  inspired  the  poet ; 

Pont-Aven,  ville  de  renom; 
Quatorse  moulins  et  cinq  maisons ! 

217 


Some  Happenings 

It  was  September  ist,  le  mois  de  la  paille  blanche,  and 
the  air  was  heavy  with  the  odours  of  harvest.  Ripeness 
rested  drowsily  upon  the  woods  and  the  fields.  Nature 
seemed  to  be  napping  after  travail,  preparing  for  the  long 
sleep  of  winter.  But  Bellec  was  a  Gallio  in  regard  to  these 
things.  Peasants  he  despised,  and  peasant's  work.  He  had 
a  corps  de  fer  pour  le  plaisir,  and  the  pleasures  of  life  he 
took  seriously — its  duties,  lightly.  As  he  walked  he 
whistled  an  air  of  Botrel's  that  he  had  heard  in  a  cafe 
chantant  at  Brest :  ''On  m' attend  au  pays  Breton.^*  He 
knew  of  more  than  one  who  had  waited  for  his  return,  and 
this  knowledge  pleased  him. 

His  mother,  the  matchmaker,  embraced  him  warmly,  for 
she  had  not  seen  this  well-beloved  son  for  three  days.  Leon 
sat  down  on  the  ancient  oak  table,  glanced  at  the  massive 
armoire  where  his  mother  kept  her  money,  and  called  for  a 
c  ho  pine  of  cider. 

"Ma  mere,"  said  he  presently,  "when  does  this  mar- 
riage thou  hast  just  arranged  between  Philomene  Carvennec 
and  her  cripple  take  place  ?" 

''Next  month,  mon  His,"  replied  the  dame. 

''A  sorry  wedding!     The  Goapers  are  not  popular." 

''Francois  is  a  good  man.  He  will  make  Philomene 
happy." 

"He?  Ma  Done!  That  was  a  life  hardly  worth  the  sav- 
ing." 

The  matchmaker  shrugged  a  shapely  pair  of  shoulders. 
"Frangois  will  be  kind  and  loyal,  my  son.  Wives  learn  to 
love  a  big  heart,  even  if  it  beats  in  a  small  body.  A  propos, 
I  must  find  a  wife  for  thee:  one,  too,  with  more  than  a 
well-turned  leg  in  her  stocking." 

'T  am  here  this  morning  to  speak  of  that,"  said  Leon. 
"What   can  be  put  in  my  stocking,  ma  mere?"    He  glanced 
at  the  massive  armoire 
218 


A  Breton  Love-Story 

The  matchmaker  frowned,  biting  her  Hps,  but  gazing  with 
affection  at  her  handsome  son.  "There  is  not  much  left/' 
she  replied  slowly.  ''My  son,  I  do  not  reproach  thee.  The 
past  is — past.  If  thou  hast  been  weak  and  foolish,  so  have 
I.  It  is  strange  that  1  who  find  it  easy  to  say  no  to  others 
have  never  been  able  to  say  no  to  thee.  For  the  rest,  I  can- 
not give  thee  more  than  five  thousand  francs.  It  is  all  I 
have." 

Leon  nodded.  His  mother  never  lied  to  him.  "All  the 
same,  ma  mere,  a  good  income  is  thine :  the  matchmaker  of 
Nizon  will  never  come  to  want.  Returning  to  my  affairs — 
I  have  seen  the  girl  I  wish  to  make  my  wife." 

*'Not— not  Rozenn  of  Riec?" 

"Rozenn  is  well  enough,  but "    He  paused,  then  said 

abruptly,  "I  want  Philomene  Carvennec." 

"Philomene!"  screamed  the  dame,  rising  in  her  excite- 
ment. "Ah,  Jesus!  He  is  mad,  this  poor  son  of  mine — 
but  crazy !  He  wants  a  girl  who  is  about  to  be  betrothed  to 
his  own  friend.    Farceur!" 

Leon  rose  also,  confronting  his  mother.  "See  here !  If 
I  lift  my  little  finger — so!    Philo  will  come  to  me.'^ 

"And  the  scandal  ?    And  the  dowry  ?" 

"Persuade  Pere  Carvennec.  That  will  be  easy,  because  he 
is  mean.  The  Goapers  demand  twenty-five  thousand  francs. 
I  will  be  satisfied  with  fifteen." 

"It  is  impossible,"  said  the  matchmaker  hoarsely. 

"Impossible?    Bah!" 

"A  shameful  thing  to  do — a  shameful  thing  to  ask." 

"Then  there  remains — Rozenn." 

The  mother  gasped. 

"One  must  marry  some  one,  and  beggars  can't  be 
choosers.     Rozenn  has  ten  thousand  francs — she  told  me 

so." 

219 


Some  Happenings 

The  matchmaker's  wrath  burst  into  scorching  flames. 
Ah!  if  he  had  not  been  so  extravagant,  if  he  had  not  de- 
voured her  economies — the  animal ! — she  could  have  found 
him  a  richer  bride  than  Philomene  Carvennec.  As  for 
Rozenn,  it  went  without  saying  that  such  a  hussy  should 
never  darken  her  doors. 

The  son  listened  sullenly.  Presently  he  said  coldly,  *Then 
it  is — good-bye." 

Something  in  his  voice  arrested  her  attention — a  note  of 
recklessness,  of  finality.  ''What!  My" — the  emphasis  on 
the  pronoun  was  pathetic — ''my  son  goes  to  that  red- 
headed wanton?" 

'To  her,  or  to  the  devil.    It  is  the  same  thing." 

"My  son  leaves  me  like  this  after — after "  She  cov- 
ered her  trembling  features,  too  proud  to  recite  the  sacri- 
fices made  on  his  behalf. 

Leon  took  her  hand.  When  he  spoke  his  voice  was  singu- 
larly soft  and  pleasing.  Hearing  it,  a  stranger  would  un- 
derstand why  women  found  it  hard  to  say  no  to  the  speaker. 
"Ma  mere,  let  us  be  reasonable !  What  do  I  ask  ?  A  baga- 
telle !  For  a  good  Catholic  it  is  a  matter  of  conscience.  A 
match  between  Philomene  and  that  poor  cripple  is  an  in- 
famy." 

"Go,"  she  said  fiercely.  '*I  must  be  alone.  But  never 
talk  to  me  again  of — conscience.    Go — go !" 

When  he  had  gone  she  cleaned  and  put  away  her  son's 
glass,  muttering  to  herself,  "They  will  say  that  I  am  no  bet- 
ter than  Jan  Corfec,  the  tailor." 

Jan,  a  tailor  of  Pont-Aven,  holding  many  years  pre- 
viously the  sacred  office  of  matchmaker,  had  trifled,  as 
she  was  tempted  to  trifle,  with  honour  and  the  traditions  of 
the  province.    He  had  lost  fame,  fortune,  and  occupation. 


220 


A  Breton  Love-Story 
III 

Leon,  meantime,  walked  to  Riec,  where  he  met  Philo- 
mene's  father  at  the  tavern  kept  by  Rozenn's  mother. 
"They  tell  me,'*  said  the  hero,  ''that  your  crops  are  heavy." 

*'And  I'm  shorthanded,"  growled  Carvennec. 

Leon  placed  his  strong  arms  at  an  old  friend's  service. 
■  Carvennec  swore  his  thanks,  offering  brandy. 

"You  are  the  brave  son  of  a  good  mother,"  said  he,  as  the 
cognac  warmed  his  gratitude.  "She  has  found  a  husband 
for  la  petite,  as  you  know.  It  is  a  pity  that  he  limps  so  con- 
foundedly. He  won't  help  much  on  the  farm.  Well,  the 
wedding  won't  take  place  till  after  harvest — no  clashing 
with  honest  work." 

And  they  drank  solemnly,  clinking  their  glasses  and  re- 
filling them. 

"Enough,"  said  Bellec,  aftter  the  third  bumper.  "I  drink 
no  more." 

"Eh?"  said  the  other  in  amazement.  ''Sapristi,  we've 
only  just  begun." 

Leon  rose  from  his  chair.  "I  drink,"  said  he,  "but  I  do 
not  get  drunk."    He  left  the  tavern. 

"It's  droll,"  remarked  Carvennec  to  Rozenn,  who  waited 
upon  the  customers,  "but  one  would  say  that  our  Leon 
shirked  his  liquor.  For  what  did  the  good  God  send  us 
cognac  ?" 

"A  fig  for  Leon  Bellec,"  cried  a  sailor  from  Concarneau. 
"I  do  not  like  him.  And  I  know  why  he  does  not  drink. 
That  for  your  hero !" 

He  snapped  his  fingers  and  scowled  at  the  company. 

"You  are  brave,"  sneered  the  girl,  showing  her  teeth. 
"You  snap  your  fingers  at  an  unseen  enemy.  So  did 
Leon  Bellec — at  death.'* 

"I'll  snap  my  fingers  in  the  animal's  face.    See." 

221 


Some  Happenings  v 

He  staggered  across  the  broad  white  road  and  approached 
Leon,  who  was  talking  with  a  friend.    The  others  followed. 

"Bellec,"  said  the  sailor,  "thou  art  a  lazy  pig  of  a  poser. 
Thou  knowest  me.  I  served  with  thee,  animal,  on  board 
La  Siiperhe!* 

He  snapped  his  fingers  twice  beneath  the  nose  of  the 
hero.  Those  present  stared  aghast.  Bellec  looked  down 
into  the  twitching  face  of  his  old  shipmate. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  "I  know  thee  well,  Jacques  Morvezen. 
In  the  past  nothing  would  silence  thy  lying  tongue  but  blows. 
Take  that !" 

He  struck  the  sailor  between  the  eyes,  felling  him  to  the 
ground,  where  he  lay,  a  huddled  heap;  the  others  moved 
away.     Rozenn  brought  brandy. 

"Is  he  gone — that  coward  who  dares  not  drink?" 

"Yes." 

Morvezen  began  to  mutter,  and  Rozenn,  bending  her 
flaming  head,  listened.  Presently  she  smiled,  and  gave  the 
man  more  liquor.  With  her  assistance  he  regained  his  feet, 
and  re-entered  the  tavern,  talking  and  cursing.  The  girl 
waited  upon  him  till  he  sank  into  a  drunken  stupor.  Then 
she  left  him. 

"Sober  men  lie,"  she  murmured  to  herself,  "but  children 
and  drunkards  tell  the  truth.  Leon  Bellec  is  wise  to  keep 
sober." 


IV 


Frangois  Goaper  assisted  at  Carvennec's  threshing,  and  it 
chanced  that  he  and  Leon  worked  side  by  side,  the  strong 
contrasted  with  the  weak.  Philomene,  tripping  backwards 
and  forwards  between  house  and  barn,  muttered  again  and 
again:    "There  is  Leon,  and  beside  him  poor  Frangois." 

Upon   the   morning   of    the    third   day   the   main   cog- 

222 


A  Breton  Love-Story 

wheel  of  the  crude  oxen- worked  threshing  machine  was 
deflected  from  a  horizontal  position.  No  man,  save  Bellec, 
was  powerful  enough  to  adjust  it;  and  he  handled  the  im- 
mense mass  with  so  little  effort  that  the  stolid  peasants  were 
thrilled  to  applause.  Then  Leon  explained  to  Carvennec 
that  the  wheel  would  certainly  again  shift  its  position  un- 
less some  heavy  weight  were  placed  upon  it. 

Carvennec  summoned  Philomene.  "Thou  knowest  where 
the  pig-iron  lies,  in  the  shed  yonder.  Take  Leon  with  thee 
and  show  it  to  him." 

She  glanced  nervously  at  her  father.  "The  iron,"  she 
stammered,  "1-lies  b-beneath  the  fourth  truss  of  hay,  count- 
ing from  the  d-d-door." 

"Worn  d'un  chien!"  said  her  father  impatiently.  "Don't 
chatter  like  a  magpie,  but  do  as  I  bid  thee." 

She  obeyed,  blushing.  As  soon  as  they  were  out  of  ear- 
shot the  man  spoke : 

"Thou  art  unwilling,  Philo,  to  trust  thyself  with  me.  I 
know  the  reason." 

He  said  no  more  till  they  were  alone  in  the  shed.  The 
girl  was  trembling. 

Leon  smiled  complacently.  "Thou  lovest  me,  my  sweet 
little  hen." 

She  hid  a  scarlet  face  in  her  apron. 

"Thou  lovest  me,"  he  repeated.  "Embrace  me,  ma  belle, 
for  I  also  love  thee."  He  seized  her  in  his  immense  arms, 
and  kissed  her  hair,  her  small  ears,  but  not  her  face,  which 
she  kept  covered.  He  felt  her  slight  body  trembling  in  his 
clasp. 

When  he  released  her  he  looked  up  and  saw  Frangois 
Goaper  standing  just  outside  the  shed.  Francois'  face 
was  as  twisted  as  his  body.  Leon  remembered  that  he  had 
looked  just  so  after  the  bullets  had  struck  him.     Then 

223 


Some  Happenings 

Philomene  saw  him,  and  turning,  fled.  The  men  were 
alone. 

"She  loves  me,  not  thee,"  said  Leon  sullenly.  As  the  other 
made  no  reply,  he  continued  with  greater  fluency  and 
audacity,  "For  the  rest,  it  is  only  natural;  thou  canst  not 
blame  tlie  little  one." 

"Have  I  said  that  I  blamed  her?"  demanded  Frangois. 

*'See  now,  matters  can  be  arranged.  The  formal  be- 
trothal has  not  yet  taken  place.  Carvennec  needs  a  strong 
son-in-law." 

"Why  did  you  not  leave  me  to  die  on  the  dunes  ?" 

Leon  shrugged  his  broad  shoulders. 

**You  saved  my  life,"  continued  Frangois  vehemently, 
"but  you  have  taken  away  what  I  value  more  than  life." 

"It  is  nature,"  growled  Bellec,  unable  to  meet  the  eyes  of 
his  old  comrade.    "Art  thou  a  fit  mate  for  her?" 

Then  Frangois  spoke  with  a  curious  dignity.  "I  have 
asked  myself  that  question,  Leon  Bellec ;  I  did  not  wait  for 
another  to  put  it  to  me.  I  am  a  cripple,  true,  but  otherwise 
I  am  strong " 

"Strong!     Thou?" 

''^There  is  a  strength  other  than  that  of  muscle.  No  girl 
in  Brittany  would  have  been  more  tenderly  loved  and 
cherished." 

"But  if  she  prefers — me?" 

"What  has  happened?  Have  you  not  found  the  iron? 
The  work  is  at  a  standstill." 

Carvennec  spoke  peevishly,  addressing  both  men — sensible 
that  something  which  affected  him  had  come  to  pass. 

Leon  answered  with  assurance :  "Mon  pere,  the  truth 
is  always  best.  Frangois  caught  me  kissing  the  little  one. 
Wait!  She  loves  me,  as  a  wife  should  love  her  husband. 
And  you?  Don't  you  need  a  strong  son,  who  can  work 
hard  and  long  ?  Yes.  Let  us  all  be  reasonable.  Only  fools 
224 


A  Breton  Love-Story 

quarrel.  And  there  is  another  thing.  Money  is  scarce 
these  times.  Well,  I  will  take  Philo  gladly  with  little  more 
than  half  the  dowry  the  Goapers  want.  I  am  not 
mercenary." 

''You  have  the  impudence  of  the  devil,"  spluttered  Car- 
vennec. 

"He  is  right,"  said  Frangois  coldly. 

"Right  or  wrong,  she  is  yours,"  said  Carvennec.  "I  stick 
to  my  bargains,  and  so  shall  she !" 

'Teon  saved  my  life,  I  give  him  Philomene.  We  are 
quits." 

V 

A  small  crowd  was  beginning  to  gather  in  the  court- 
yard behind  the  farmhouse  which  belonged  to  Carvennec. 
Truly,  as  Leon  had  boasted  to  his  mother,  the  hero  of  Nizon 
had  many  friends,  and  those  who  were  not  taking  part  in 
the  bridegroom's  procession  were  now  awaiting  his  arrival. 
In  the  room  to  the  right  of  the  ancient  kitchen  Philomene 
was  being  arrayed  for  her  wedding  in  the  heavy  dress  and 
petticoats  of  the  Bretonne  bride.  The  women  said  that 
these  weighed  no  less  than  fifteen  pounds,  and  in  them 
Philomene  would  be  expected  to  dance  more  or  less  con- 
tinuously for  eight  hours !  Some  artists  spending  the  au- 
tumn at  Pont-Aven  were  attempting,  sketch-book  in  hand, 
to  catch  the  elusive  lights  and  shadows,  the  colour  and 
movement,  the  intimate  charm  of  the  scene. 

Frangois  Goaper  leaned  against  a  huge  granite  drinking- 
trough  which  had  been  taken  from  the  ruined  chateau  of 
Rustephan.  The  horses  of  crusaders  may  have  drunk  out 
of  it;  yet  it  remained,  symbolical  of  the  Breton  race,  in- 
destructible, defying  the  elements,  worn  and  scarred  by  the 
centuries,  but  still  serviceable  and  to  the  imaginative  mind 
beautiful. 

225 


Some  Happenings 

Frangois,  who  had  imagination,  gazed  into  the  water  and 
saw  his  own  troubled  features,  and  behind  them  fancies  even 
more  troubled.  Public  opinion  condemned  his  presence  at 
this  wedding.  He  had  been  scurvily  treated  by  his  friend, 
the  giant  who  had  saved  his  life,  and  pride  ought  to  have 
kept  him  within  his  own  house.    Why  had  he  come  ? 

He  was  asking  himself  the  same  question.  Why  had  he 
obeyed  the  voice  of  Rozenn?  She  had  asked  him,  had 
entreated  him,  to  meet  her  here  at  this  hour,  for  Philo- 
mene's  sake.  And  for  Philomene's  sake  he  had  consented. 
But  she,  that  red-headed  wanton,  was  capable  of  a  cruel  jest 
at  his  expense. 

He  looked  up  and  saw  an  old  woman,  a  great-aunt  of  the 
bride's,  regarding  him  with  dim,  misty  eyes.  She  had 
reputation  as  a  teller  of  tales,  une  conteuse  de  legende,  and 
some  of  the  children  had  whispered  that  she  was  a  witch. 
She  greeted  Frangois  in  quavering  Breton.  When  he  re- 
plied gently  to  her  salutation,  she  muttered,  "My  son,  the 
cloud  will  pass." 

"Never,"  he  replied,  with  a  gust  of  passion.  "The  sun 
is  for  them,  for  me  the  shadow." 

"The  sun  will  shine  on  you.    I  say  it." 

She  hobbled  away,  shaking  her  head,  and  mumbling  to 
herself,  as  Rozenn  approached. 

"Well,"  said  Frangois  impatiently,  "I  am  here,  as  you  see, 
a  scarecrow  for  real  crows  to  mock  at,"  He  indicated  the 
young  men  in  their  black  costumes. 

"Philomene  is  crying  in  there." 

"What  do  you  say?" 

She  is  crying,  the  bride !  Bah  !  What  you  can  see  in  her, 
the  poor  white  chicken,  beats  me.  Let  me  finish.  She  is 
crying,  and  well  she  may,  little  fool,  for  it  is  shameful  to 
marry  one  man,  loving  another." 

"She  loves  Leon." 
226 


A  Breton  Love-Story 

"Does  she  ?  How  blind  men  are !  She  did  love  him  for 
a  moment.  Or  shall  I  say  that  she  loved  what  he  seemed 
to  be — the  hero,  the  great  man  covered  with  glory.  So  she 
was  dazzled,  not  the  first  nor  the  only  one.  But  in  her 
heart  she  loves  somebody  else " 

**Be  careful  what  you  say!" 

"Pouf-f-f !  Also,  she  has  a  conscience ;  she  is  good  hi  her 
feeble  way.    She  adores,  too,  what  is  fine.    And  now " 

"Well?" 

"What  you  have  done  is  finer  in  her  eyes  than  what 
Leon  did  in  Tonquin." 

Frangois  gazed  at  her  steadily,  trying  to  divine  her  pur- 
pose. "Why  do  you  say  these  things  to  me?  If  they  are 
true,  and  for  my  part  I  do  not  think  them  true,  it  is  too 
late." 

"Too  late!"  The  girl  laughed  derisively.  "Why,  if  I 
were  you,  Vd  have  her  yet.    I'd  dry  her  tears,  I'd " 

"Hold  your  tongue !"  Frangois  commanded  sternly,  "and 
go! 

She  held  up  her  hand.    "Hark !"  she  exclaimed. 

The  note  of  the  pipe  was  heard  in  the  distance.  The 
bridegroom's  procession  was  approaching,  headed  by  the 
binious.  A  moment  later  it  came  into  sight,  the  huge  figure 
of  Leon  towering  above  the  others. 

"They  have  been  drinking  already,"  murmured  Rozenn. 

"And  what  of  that  ?  If  a  man  may  not  drink  a  cup  or  two 
of  cider  on  his  wedding  morn " 

"Don't  go,  Frangois !" 

"Why  not?    Why  should  I  stay?" 

"Because  you  must.  To  slink  away  now  would  be 
cowardly.  It  is  fitting  you  should  be  here.  Leon  risked  his 
life  for  you,  and  in  return  you  sacrificed  your  happiness  for 
him.    You  must  walk  to  the  church  in  his. procession,  if " 

"If " 

227 


Some  Happenings 

"Never  mind!  Be  guided  by  me.  I  have  good  brains, 
believe  me !    Stay  here.    Don't  move !" 

She  flitted  from  him  swiftly,  with  a  backward  glance  of 
mingled  pity,  liking  and  contempt.  Frangois,  dominated 
by  her  intense  vitality  and  determination,  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  stood  still.  After  all,  the  wench  was  right.  It 
would  be  shameful  to  sHnk  away  now.  Then  his  heart 
and  brain  turned  to  Philomene,  sobbing  as  the  women  placed 
the  orange-blossoms  upon  her ! 

Carvennec  came  out  of  his  house  to  greet  the  bridegroom. 
For  half  an  hour,  according  to  custom,  much  cider  would 
be  drunk;  then  the  two  processions,  bride's  and  groom's, 
would  be  formed,  and  each  would  set  forth  for  the  Maine, 
where  the  civil  ceremony  would  take  place.  After  that 
again  would  follow  the  impressive  ceremony  at  the  church, 
and  lastly  the  festivities,  the  endless  eating  and  drinking 
and  dancing  at  the  tavern  of  Mere  Bellec — festivities  to 
which  each  invited  guest  would  contribute  his  share  of  the 
entertainment. 

Carvennec  carried  in  his  hand  a  long-necked  bottle,  which 
he  held  delicately  as  if  it  were  a  precious  relic.  One  or  two 
of  his  kinsmen  licked  their  lips. 

"It  is  -fine  champagne/'  they  murmured.  "He  has  kept 
it  for  this." 

Then,  once  more,  a  curious  thing  happened.  Leon  re- 
fused to  drink  brandy,  although  it  was  obvious  from  his 
slightly  flushed  face  that  he,  not  to  mention  his  friends 
and  supporters,  had  taken  plenty  of  cider. 

"Nonsense,"  said  Carvennec  roughly.  He  filled  the  glass, 
and  held  it  out.  "I  insist.  Drink,  my  son !  It  is  forty-year- 
old  cognac,  and  mild  as  milk.     Yerr  matt!" 

''Yerr  mattT  replied  Leon,  draining  the  glass.  "Yes, 
yes;  that  is  good,  mon  pere,  you  are  right — and  mild  as 
milk." 

228 


A  Breton  Love-Story 

Carvennec  filled  his  own  glass  again.  "There  is  enough 
for  one  more  round,"  he  said. 

The  others  filled  their  glasses.  Leon  hesitated.  "Brandy 
affects  me/'  he  said  heavily.  "Ever  since  my  sunstroke  out 
there" — he  indicated  with  a  sweep  of  his  massive  arm  the 
Far  East — "I  have  had  to  be  careful ;  but  still,  it  is  old  and 

mild "     He   laughed   and   filled   his   glass,   clinking   it 

against  that  of  his  prospective  father-in-law.    "Yerr  matt!" 

The  sun  shone  down  upon  their  brown,  flushed  faces — 
upon  the  snowy  coifs  and  collars  of  the  women,  anxiously 
awaiting  the  bride,  about  to  leave  her  father's  house. 

"Where  is  Philomene  ?"  said  Leon. 

"You  must  have  patience,"  said  Rozenn,  hastening  by. 

The  hinious  struck  up  a  stirring  chant.  Inside  the  house 
one  could  get  a  glimpse  of  the  bride  and  her  companions; 
one  could  hear  their  laughter. 

"There  is  plenty  of  time,"  said  Carv^ennec. 

Rozenn  stared  impudently  into  the  face  of  the  bride- 
groom. "Tell  us  of  your  exploits,  mon  brave,"  she  cried 
shrilly. 

The  crowd  applauded.  Mere  Bellec  gazed  fondly  at  her 
son.  Frangois,  unnoticed,  raised  his  head;  but  he  looked 
at  the  grey  house,  not  at  the  speaker.  Of  all  the  crowd, 
he  was  the  first  to  see  the  bride,  as  she  looked  out  of  the 
window  upon  the  hero,  not  half  a  dozen  yards  away. 

"War  is  a  terrible  thing,"  said  Rozenn.  "W^ho  can  paint 
its  horrors  save  those  who  have  been  in  the  thick  of  the 
fight,  like  our  brave  Leon." 

Acclamations  followed.  The  men  cheered  the  hero: 
"Bravo,  Leon!  bravo,  bravo!" 

A  faint  flush  kindled  upon  Philomene's  pale  face. 

"This  is  no  time  to  speak  of  war,"  said  Leon  thickly. 
"Let  me  be,  Rozenn !    Let  me  be,  I  say." 

229 


Some  Happenings 

"How  modest  he  is!"  she  exclaimed.  ''Brave  men  are 
always  modest." 

"And  modest  women  hold  their  tongues,"  retorted  Bellec. 
More  than  one  noticed  how  oddly  he  spoke ;  and  yet  at  this 
early  hour  he  could  not  surely  be  fuddled. 

"I  will  tell  the  story,"  said  Rozenn,  "while  he  waits  for  his 
bride.    It  is  fitting." 

"Yes,  yes,"  assented  the  crowd.     "Tell  it!— tell  it!" 

"Why  not?"  murmured  the  proud  mother. 

"The  marines  of  La  Siiperhe,"  began  Rozenn,  "were  or- 
dered ashore.  Our  Leon  and  Francois  Goaper — where  is 
Frangois?  Ah,  there!  He  will  correct  me  if  I  make  a 
mistake.  Well,  our  Leon  and  Frangois  were  in  the  ranks. 
The  enemy  lay — there !"  She  pointed  dramatically  at  the 
blank  wall,  and  many  turned  their  heads,  so  convincing 
were  the  accents  of  the  speaker.  "There,  entrenched  behind 
a  line  of  sand-dunes.  As  our  brave  Bretons  advanced  to  the 
attack  the  bullets  were  singing  over  their  heads — pst,  pst,  pst 
— like  that !  Leon  will  tell  you  that  he  laughed,  but  not  for 
long;  for  soon,"  her  voice  sank,  "very  soon  his  comrades 
began  to  fall  by  twos  and  threes,  and  those  glancing  back 
saw  the  white  sand  hideously  stained !" 

Sl^e  paused,  surveying  her  audience.  Mere  Bellec  held 
high  her  head ;  Leon  was  grinning  in  a  most  foolish  and  as- 
tonishing fashion;  Philomene  stared  at  him  with  frowning 
brows  and  heaving  bosom ;  Frangois  Goaper  had  edged 
nearer  to  the  crowd. 

"And  just  then,"  continued  Rozenn,  changing  the  pitch  of 
her  voice,  "our  brave  Leon  began  to  think  of  his  precious 
body,  and  the  vast  mark  it  presented." 

A  murmur  of  amazement  trickled  through  the  crowd. 

"Yes,  my  friends,  he  was  thinking  of  his  precious  body; 
and  so  it  came  to  pass  that  when  the  ridge  was  gained,  Leon 
Bellec  was  lying  behind  a  sand-dune,  out  of  sight  and  out 
230 


A  Breton  Love-Story 

of  danger !  Who  missed  him  ?  Who  saw  him  ?  One  man, 
Jacques  Morvezen,  who  is  here." 

"Thou  Rest,"  said  Mere  Bellec  fiercely. 

''We  have  read  in  the  papers  what  happened  next.  Our 
soldiers,  unable  to  hold  the  ridge,  were  forced  to  return 
to  the  boats  through  a  hell-storm  of  bullets.  And  we  have 
read,  also,  that  when  they  reached  the  boats  and  were  put- 
ting off  to  the  ship,  Leon  was  seen  staggering  down  the 
slopes  with  Frangois  Goaper  upon  his  back.  And  for  this 
act  he  w^as  decorated  by  the  admiral  and  complimented  by 
Monsieur  le  President !  But,  my  friends,  you  do  not  know 
what  motive  inspired  that  act  of  valour.  Oh — la — la! 
Jacques  IMorvezen  will  tell  you.    Jacques,  come  here!" 

The  sailor  from  Concarneau  shambled  forward,  sober 
and  savage. 

"That  fellow,"  said  Morvezen,  raising  a  lean  forefinger 
and  pointing  at  Bellec,  *'is  a  coward,  and  I  am  a  coward 
to  have  kept  his  secret;  but  I  feared  his  blows,  which  are 
heavy,  as  those  weaker  than  himself  know.  Yes,  I  caught 
him  sneaking  behind  the  dunes;  and  the  truth  about  the 
rescue  of  Goaper  leaked  out  of  him  when  he  was  full  of 
brandy.  Since,  he  has  feared  to  drink  like  an  honest 
Breton.  Yes ;  he  boasted  to  me,  his  messmate,  that  he  had 
picked  up  a  senseless  wounded  comrade  and  flung  him  across 
his  back — to  save  his  own  carcase  from  the  bullets  of  the 
enemy'/' 

A  groan  burst  from  the  peasants.  The  matchmaker 
turned  and  confronted  her  son.  ''Leon  Bellec,"  she  cried, 
in  a  terrible  voice,  "is  this  true  or  false?" 

Leon  laughed  the  fatuous  laugh  of  the  drunkard.  "Well," 
he  blustered,  "and  if  it  were  true,  what  of  that?" 

"Oh,  my  God !"  said  his  mother. 

The  crowd  stared  at  Leon,  speechless  with  horror  and 
contempt.    Then  out  of  the  house  walked  Philomene.    Coif 

231 


Some  Happenings 

and  collar  were  no  whiter  than  her  face,  but  her  eyes  were 
like  pools  of  blue  water  when  the  sun  sparkles  on  them. 
She  came  swiftly  forward  till  she  met  Bellec.  Her  apron, 
exquisitely  embroidered  with  silver,  flashed  in  the  sun. 
Then  in  her  soft  gentle  voice  she  repeated  the  question  put 
by  Leon's  mother.    "Is  this  true,  Leon  ?" 

The  tone  of  her  voice  may  have  misled  him,  or  perhaps 
he  was  too  self-assured  of  his  power.  In  a  brutal  tone  he 
replied  thickly,  "Why  should  I  lie  ?  Any  one  of  you  would 
have  done  the  same.  I  am  not  ashamed  of  it — no.  And  I 
fooled  all  of  you,  including  Monsieur  le  President.  A  fine 
jest,  that!  Come,  Philomene,  embrace  a  man  who  is  not 
afraid  of  adniitting  the  truth." 

"He  is  drunk,"  said  his  mother  hoarsely. 

Rozenn  laughed.  "True,  ma  tante;  that  is  why  he  tells 
the  truth." 

The  others  gazed  at  Philomene  and  Bellec.  The  man's 
too-thick  lips  had  parted  in  a  foolish  grin;  the  girl  was 
smiHng  also.  Frangois  Goaper  had  crept  up,  so  close  that 
he  could  almost  touch  her. 

"You  cur!     You  coward!" 

The  words  fell  like  snowflakes  out  of  her  mouth,  so 
quietly  were  they  spoken.  Bellec  regarded  her  in  stupefac- 
tion as  the  crowd  re-echoed  her  words :  "Cur ! — coward !" 
Half  turning  from  the  disdain  in  her  face,  he  encountered 
Frangois,  half  his  size,  the  cripple.  In  a  hoarse  voice,  and 
with  a  savage  gesture  of  the  arm,  he  demanded,  "And  you  ? 
Do  you  call  me  coward  and  cur?" 

Frangois  met  his  glance  without  wincing,  regardless  of 
the  huge  fist  impending  above  his  head.  "Yes,"  he  an- 
swered deliberately.  "Cur  you  are,  and  coward,  and — 
thief." 

The  heavy  fist  fell,  smiting  the  weakling  to  the  earth. 
At  the  same  moment  a  hoarse,  savage  cry  of  indignation 
232 


A  Breton  Love-Story 

broke  from  the  crowd — the  ominous  growl  of  an  incensed 
people. 

"Go !"  shrieked  the  mother.    *'Run !" 

He  had  sense  enough  left  to  obey.  He  ran  swiftly,  fol- 
lowed by  most  of  the  men,  pelted  with  sharp  words  and 
sharper  flints. 

Philomene  knelt  by  Frangois,  laying  her  hand  upon  his 
forehead  where  the  fist  had  struck  him.  At  her  touch  he 
opened  his  eyes. 

"Frangois,  I  am  so  sorry,"  she  faltered. 

**Sorry  ?"  He  smiled  faintly.  "Are  you  sorry  on  my 
account  ?  Why,  Philomene,  how  ridiculous  that  is !  for  I, 
look  you,  was  never  so  glad  or  so  happy  before." 

"Your  head  is  crushed." 

"Better  my  head  than  my  heart,"  he  whispered. 

Raising  himself  up,  as  others  approached,  he  saw  that 
the  girl  was  blushing.  The  tenderness  in  her  eyes  was  not 
to  be  misinterpreted. 

"And  better  my  head  than  your  heart,"  he  added. 


233 


XIV 

jimmy's  rest  cure 

I   HAVE  heard  Jimmy  admit,  more  than  once,  that  hiis 
marriage  with  Mrs.  Jimmy  was  the  mistake  of  his  life. 

"All  the  Boltons  are  fools,"  he  said  to  me  in  confidence, 
"and  Kitty  has  the  family  failing.  It's  awfully  tough  on 
me;  wearing,  you  know,  and  exhausting.  I'm  losing  flesh, 
by  gad,  from  the  constant  irritation  of  seeing  the  face  and 
hearing  the  voice  of  a  fool.  Kitty  is  quite  as  big  a  fool  as 
her  brother  Tom,  and  you  know  what  an  arch-fool  he  is." 

"Tom  Bolton  a  fool !"  I  cried.  "My  dear  Jimmy,  I've 
always  considered  him  one  of  the  shrewdest  men  in  San 
Francisco.    Pray  explain  yourself." 

Jimmy  elevated  his  handsome  eyebrows  and  smiled.  We 
had  dined  together  at  a  down-town  restaurant,  and  were 
now  alone  in  the  smaller  reading-room  of  the  Pegasus 
Club.  The  big  clock  ticked  discreetly  in  its  corner,  and  a 
wood  fire  crackled  cheerily  on  the  hearth.  Under  such  con- 
ditions a  married  man  may  be  pardoned  if  he  tells  the 
truth. 

My  friend  lighted  a  fresh  cigar  and  sucked  at  it  reflec- 
tively for  a  few  moments  before  he  answered  me. 

"Tom,"  he  began  slowly,  "is  certainly  an  exasperating 
rustler.  I  concede  that.  He  is  well  educated  and  well  mean- 
ing— a  common  quality  with  fools ;  but — ahem — what  do 
you  suppose  he  does  with  his  enormous  income?" 

"Being  a  fool — as  you  affirm — he  probably  pays  your 
debts." 

234 


Jimmy's  Rest  Cure 

Jimmy's  fine  blue  eyes  gazed  reproachfully  into  mine. 

"He  reinvests  it,"  he  said  disdainfully — "every  d d 

cent  of  it!  What  further  proof  do  you  want  of  his  folly? 
Here  is  a  fellow  worth  at  least  a  couple  of  millions;  and 
v.'hat  does  he  do?  Does  he  sit  down,  as  any  sane  man 
should,  and  soberly  consider  how  best  he  can  spend  his 
income  so  as  to  procure  for  himself  and  his  dowdy  wife  the 
maximum  of  pleasure  and  the  minimum  of  discomfort? 
Not  a  bit  of  it !  He  works  instead  at  his  confounded  office 
from  nine  to  five  each  blessed  day.  He  drinks  cheap 
Zinfandel,  which  must  kill  him  eventually.  He  smokes  Key- 
\\'est  cigars  at  three  f(>r  a  quarter.  He  pays  his  cook,  his 
cook,  mark  you,  thirty  dollars  a  month,  and  boasts  of  the 
fact." 

'This  is  a  terrible  indictment,  Jimmy." 

"Gad!  I  should  say  so.  That  is  not  all,  however.  He 
takes  the  historic  fool's  privilege  and  presumes  to  lecture 
me,  me,  upon  what  he  is  pleased  to  call  the  folly  of  my  ways. 
He  took  me  severely  to  task  yesterday,  and  I  told  him — 
pleasantly,  of  course — to  go  and  consult  a  physician,  and 
that  I  was  really  worried  about  his  mental  condition.  He 
swore  at  me,  the  idiot  (a  fool  never  controls  himself),  and 
then  tackled  his  sister.  That  is  why,"  he  added,  incon- 
sequently,  "1  dined  out  with  you  this  evening.  Kitty  is  in 
the  sulks." 

*'Your  wife  shares  her  brother's  views?". 

"Naturally.  She's  a  Bolton.  It's  in  the  blood,  I  tell  you. 
Old  Bolton — you  never  dined  with  him,  did  you?  Lucky 
fellow! — died  of  drinking  too  much  ice  water.  Gad!  how 
those  dinners  do  stick  in  my  memory!  Family  style — you 
know  it :  soup  turbid  as  the  Bolton  wit ;  gigantic  turkeys  and 
roasts;  Vanilla  ice  cream!     Bah!   !   ! 

"Poor  Jimmy!"  I  murmured  sympathetically. 

"Poor  indeed,"  he  echoed.     "Poor  as  a  church  m.ouse. 

235 


Some  Happenings 

You  see,  with  my  tastes  I  had  no  choice.  I  was  compelled  to 
marry  an  heiress  or  blow  my  brains  out ;  and  Kitty — I  give 
her  her  due — was  a  nice  little  girl,  very  spooney,  and  plastic, 
so  I  fancied,  as  clay  in  the  hands  of  a  potter.  Great  Scott ! 
how  I  deceived  myself!  The  truth  is,  a  stream  can't  rise 
higher  than  its  source ;  and  Kitty  still  likes  Vanilla  ice 
cream,  and  pumpkin  pie,  and  the  primitive  ideas  which  go 
with  them.  I" — he  paused  and  made  a  deprecating  ges- 
ture— ''I  simply  can't  digest  them :  the  ideas,  I  mean ;  and 
I  feel  myself  failing.  I  shall  die,  confound  it,  of  mental 
indigestion." 

"This  is  really  serious,  Jimmy.    What  do  you  propose  ?" 

"I'll  tell  you,"  he  said,  visibly  brightening.  "I've  made 
up  my  mind  to  take  a  rest  cure.  Not  the  bed  and  milk  busi- 
ness, but  a  rest  cure  on  a  novel  plan." 

He  rubbed  his  hands  together  as  gleefully  as  a  school- 
boy. Certainly  Jimmy  was  a  handsome  man,  a  charming 
personality,  as  every  one,  except  the  Boltons,  agreed.  He 
had  hosts  of  friends,  and  an  aristocratic  nose,  slightly  aqui- 
line, which  might  precede  a  man  into  any  society.  Jimmy, 
in  fact,  had  dined  more  than  once  with  royalty,  and  sunned 
himself  in  the  smiles  of  an  arch-duchess.  He  never  men- 
tioned these  trifles,  which  obtained  none  the  less  for  him 
a  certain  vogue,  because  he  knew  that  the  friends  aforesaid 
might  be  trusted  to  exploit  them,  not  to  mention  the  society 
papers  and  the  Associated  Press  dispatches. 

"But  I  need  your  assistance,"  he  was  kind  enough  to  add, 
"and  your  sympathy.  You  must  give  me  credit  for  having 
honestly  overworked  myself  in  the  laudable  endeavour  to 
make  bricks  without  straw  out  of  Bolton  adobe.  A  little 
more  effort  would  result  in  collapse :  collapse  followed  by  a 
gradual  sinking  in  the  Bolton  mire — a  quite  unthinkable 
state  of  affairs.  You  see  the  law  of  self-preservation  will 
assert  itself." 
236 


Jimmy's  Rest  Cure 

"Apropos,  Jimmy :  your  wife  needs  the  rest  cure  as  badly 
as  you  do.    She  looks  anaemic." 

"She  is  anaemic,"  he  assented.  "She  worries  over  trifles — 
another  proof  of  folly.  Of  course  you  know  she  is  still 
absurdly  fond  of  me." 

"Certainly,"  I  remarked;  "she  is  a  foolish  woman." 

"The  children,"  continued  Jimmy,  ignoring  my  inter- 
ruption, "are  a  link  between  us.  On  that  account  divorce 
— presuming  I  could  obtain  a  decree — is  out  of  the  question. 
There  is  nothing  left  but  temporary  separation,  and  you 
must  compass  it." 

"Why  should  I  interfere  between  man  and  wife?" 

"Because  you  are  my  friend  and  Kitty's  friend.  You 
have  stood  in  with  both  of  us.  She  respects  you.  Ah! 
that  reminds  me  of  a  dig  in  the  ribs  she  gave  me  at  luncheon 
to-day.  'George,'  she  said — meaning  you — 'is  a  good  in- 
fluence in  your  life,  Jimmy.  I  wish  your  other  friends' — she 
was  making  a  centre  shot  at  the  Kosmos  boys — 'were  as  nice 
as  he.'  Now,  you  must  admit  that  no  self-respecting  man 
can  stomach  such  malodorous  comparisons.  I  made  up  my 
mind  then  and  there  to  'git/  " 

"Where  will  you  'git'  to?" 

"I  first  thought  of  Burlingame,  and  then  a  shoot  in 
British  Columbia ;  but  polo  and  climbing  mountains  are  not 
rest,  and  need  rest.  Besides,  change  of  scene  is  not  enough. 
I  crave — er — the  anodyne  of  congenial  companionship  with 
— er — with " 

"With  Mrs.  McVickar,"  I  suggested. 

He  laughed. 

'*Why  not  ?  she  is  in  the  same  boat  with  me.  That  brute 
McVickar  bullies  her  from  morning  till  night.  She  is  fail- 
ing too." 

"Failing! — I  haven't  noticed  it." 

"My  dear  old  man,  you  never  notice  anything  larger  than 

237 


Some  Happenings 

a  comma  bacillus.  Your  undivided  attention  is  given  to 
bacteria  and  high-priced  objectives.  You  don't  deign  to  look 
at  an  object  so  absurdly  large  as  a  human  being.  However, 
you  have  stumbled  blindly  on  to  my  tracks.  Mrs.  Mac.  and 
I  propose  to  go  to  the  Islands  together." 

The  audacity  of  this  proposition  amazed  me. 

"The  devil  you  do?  And  vv^hat  will  McVickar  say,  and 
Tom  Bolton,  and  the  rest  of  your  friends?" 

"I  hope  they  all  know  me  to  be  an  honourable  man," 
said  Jimmy,  in  an  offended  tone.  *'My  attachment  to  Mrs. 
Mac.  is  purely  platonic.  She  will  take  all  her  children  and 
that  Gorgon  of  a  German  governess.  The  proprieties  will 
be  observed;  but  we  shall  have  a  glorious  time,  a  glorious 
time !  Mentally  we  were  made  for  each  other.  We  will  sit 
together  in  the  palm  groves  and  listen  to  the  waves  break- 
ink  upon  the  coral  reefs.  We  shall  interchange  ideas  di- 
vested of  the  dross  of  commonplace.  It  will  be  rest — rest 
intellectually,  morally  and  physically — rest  perfect  and 
complete.     An  idyll!" 

"It  is  the  nature  of  idylls,  Jimmy,  to  come  sooner  or 
later  (generally  sooner)  to  an  end.    What  then?" 

"I  hope,"  he  replied  warmly,  "that  I  am  not  a  man  to 
evade  my  responsibilities.  I  have  my  limitations,  but  selfish- 
ness, thank  Heaven,  is  not  a  failing  of  mine.  I  intend,  when 
the  cure  is  accomplished,  to  devote  myself  to  my  family. 
But  to  do  effective  work,  lasting  v/ork,  I  must  build  myself 
up;  I  must  recuperate  my  shattered  energies.  I  shall  re- 
turn to  San  Francisco,  to  Kitty  and  Tom — I  do  not  wholly 
despair  of  Tom — prepared  to  sacrifice  myself,  if  need  be, 
upon  the  altar  of  duty.  I  have  failed  hitherto,  I  confess  it 
— failed  ignominiously,  but  I  shall  try  again.  Give  me 
credit,  George,  for  a  spirit  of  altruism  which  is  rarely  met 
with  in  these  Hn-du-siecle  days." 

And  what  role  do  you  ask  me  to  play  in  this  comedy?" 
238 


Jimmy's  Rest  Cure 

*'You  must  persuade  Kitty  that  this  trip  to  Honolulu  is 
a  necessity.  Tell  her  what  you  please — anything — every- 
thing !" 

"You  propose  to  leave  the  matter  entirely  in  my  hands." 

"I  do." 

''Very  good.     I'll  do  what  I  can." 

Five  minutes  later  he  left  me  (for  a  game  of  poker),  and 
I  sat  by  the  fire — September  evenings  are  chilly  in  San 
Francisco — thinking  not  of  Jimmy  but  of  his  wife.  Poor 
little  woman !  Poor  lonely  little  woman !  My  heart  ached 
for  her.  A  fool  ?  Yes ;  inasmuch  as  she  had  laid  her  heart 
and  her  fortune  at  the  feet  of  Jimmy :  Jimmy  the  altruist, 
Jimmy,  whose  mission  in  life  was  to  mould  mankind — and 
in  particular  that  tough  Bolton  adobe — after  his  own 
aesthetic  pattern ! 

Presently  my  thoughts  turned  to  Mrs.  Mac.  Failing,  too ! 
Ah  me  !  what  a  loss  to  society !  A  really  amazing  woman ; 
so  dainty,  so  mondaine,  so  freshly  and  crisply  up  to  date. 
Yes,  she  and  Jimmy  had  surely  much  in  common.  It  would 
be  an  act  of  charity  to  throw  them  together  for  three  months 
or  so:  an  intellectual  rest — as  Jimmy  said — perfect  and 
complete. 

I  saw  his  wife  the  following  morning  at  her  own  home, 
a  delightful  house  on  Pacific  Heights.  The  butler,  a  round, 
red-faced,  beef-eating  Briton,  detained  me  in  the  hall  and 
v^hispered  a  dozen  words. 

"Mr.  George,  I'm  glad  you've  called.  My  mistress  is 
horful  low;  'ipped,  so  to  speak,  and  hunder  the  weather 


as  never  was." 


I  found  kitty  in  a  wrapper,  lying  supinely  upon  a  sofa! 
It  must  be  understood  that  the  Boltons  disapproved  dis- 
tinctly of  wrappers  and  sofas.  Tailor-made  gowns  and  un- 
limited exercise  were  their  strong  points. 

239 


Some  Happenings 

"Why,  Kitty,"  I  cried,  "what  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?" 

She  languidly  held  up  her  hand  and  welcomed  me  with  a 
feeble  smile. 

"I'm  petered  out,"  she  answered,  with  a  hysterical  at- 
tempt at  a  laugh.  Then,  to  my  dismay,  she  burst  out  cry- 
ing. 

Now,  I  had  known  Kitty  Bolton  intimately  for  many 
years.  Once  upon  a  time  I  had  hoped  to  .  .  .  Well,  no  mat- 
ter, that  was  before  Jimmy  appeared  on  the  scene:  I  re- 
peat, I  had  known  her  very  intimately,  but  had  never  seen 
her  in  tears.  A  cheerful,  bustling,  energetic  little  soul,  she 
carried  with  her  sunshine,  not  showers,  wherever  she  went. 
At  a  loss  to  find  a  suitable  phrase,  I  waited  patiently  for  a 
minute  or  two  and  held  my  peace. 

"Perhaps,"  I  suggested,  as  her  sobs  subsided,  "it  might 
help  you,  Kitty,  to  have  an  old-time  talk  with  me.  Give 
your  trouble  words,  my  dear." 

"It's  Jimmy,"  she  faltered.  "He  doesn't  love  me  any 
more.  That's  all.  I'm  a  fool,  as  he  says,  to  cry  about  it, 
but  the  sudden  sight  of  your  kind  face,  George,  reminded 
me  of  happier  days." 

"You  have  been  married  five  years — eh  ?" 

"Yes,  five  years.  Jimmy  has  been  awfully  good  to  me. 
He  has  nice  ways,  you  know,  with  women — never  rough, 
never  rude.  He  says  himself  that  he's  the  easiest  person  in 
the  world  to  get  along  with ;  and  so  he  is.  It  is  all  my  fault. 
I'm  beginning  to  think  that  we  Boltons  are  different  from 
Jimmy,  and  Mrs.  McVickar,  and  all  of  that  set.  We  are 
archaic.  Jimmy  is  up  to  date,  and  much  too  clever  for  me. 
He  laughs  at  my  crudities.  I  ought  to  have  married  a  dear 
old  simple  Simon  like  you,  George;  but  I  fell  in  love  with 
Jimmy.    Now  he  wants  to  leave  me,  and  I  can't  bear  it  " 

"But,  Kitty,  as  a  good  wife  you  should  consider  your  hus- 
band. He  needs  rest — so  he  says:  well,  give  him  rest.  If 
240 


Jimmy's  Rest  Cure 

he  wishes  to  go  to  Jericho,  let  him  go !  Urge  him  to  go  and 
stay  away  from  you  as  long  as  he  likes.    Give  him  rope." 

Her  eyes  brightened,  and  the  colour  began  to  return 
slowly  to  her  cheeks. 

"I  think  I  understand,"  she  replied  softly.  "But,  George 
— oh,  how  can  I  tell  you ! — he  wishes  to  go  to  the  Islands ; 
and  I  know  the  reason:  that — that  woman  is  going  there 
too." 

"What  of  it?"  I  said  lightly.  "I  know  Jimmy  well.  He 
is  to  be  trusted.  So  is  Mrs.  Mac.  Neither  will  injure  them- 
selves in  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Grundy.  You  can  gamble  on 
that." 

**I  don't  care,"  she  answered  obstinately:  *'I  won't  have 
my  Jimmy  sailing  over  summer  seas  with  that  false,  smirk- 
ing, scented  wretch.  I'm  surprised,  George,  at  you ;  I 
thought  you  were  my  friend." 

"Suppose,  Kitty,  that  I  went  with  Jimmy?  I  need  a 
rest,  too;  we  all  need  rest.  Would  my  being  along  make 
any  difference?" 

"Yes,  it  would.  I  can  trust  him  with  you,  George.  But 
how  can  you  leave  your  profession?  and  you  are  getting 
along  so  capitally;  we  are  all  so  proud  of  you.  No,  no,  no 
— you  cannot  leave  California." 

"None  the  less,"  I  replied,  "1  have  made  up  my  mind  to 
go  to  the  Islands,  whether  Jimmy  goes  or  not.  I  am  in- 
terested in — er — the  sugar  industry.  It  will  be  a  business 
proposition  for  me." 

We  argued  at  length ;  but  I  gained  my  point,  and  when  I 
left  the  house  found  myself  practically  pledged  to  accom- 
pany Jimmy,  as  watch-dog,  to  Honolulu,  and  return.  Mi- 
croscopically considered,  I  was  glad  of  the  opportunity  of 
examining  the  protozoa  of  Hawaii ;  but  I  knew  that  a  rising 
lawyer  has  no  business  lotos  eating  on  coral  strands,  and  a 

241 


Some  Happenings 

three-months'  absence  from  the  office  meant  a  serious  fall- 
ing off  of  clients. 

A  fortnight  later  we  sailed,  and  half  San  Francisco — so 
it  seemed  to  me — came  down  to  the  wharf  to  bid  us  God- 
speed. Mrs.  McVickar  and  Jimmy  were  assuredly  social 
stars  of  the  first  magnitude.  Jimmy,  with  his  intimate 
knowledge  of  grand-ducal  courts,  and  Mrs.  Mac,  with  her 
Doucet  dresses  and  sweet,  indefinable,  mysterious  smile, — 
like  the  breaking  of  dawn  through  a  mist,  as  Jimmy  once 
said, — could  not  fail  to  command  both  respect  and  admira- 
tion from  rich  and  poor  alike.  In  five  minutes  they  had 
taken  undisputed  possession  of  the  ship.  The  whole  crew, 
from  captain  to  cabin-boy,  were  ready  to  swear  that  Jimmy 
was  one  of  Nature's  noblemen,  and  that  Mrs.  Mac.  must 
have  fallen  full  grown  from  Heaven,  stopping  en  route  at 
Paris  merely  to  clothe  herself!  To  these  two  the  German 
governess  and  myself  acted  as  excellent  foils. 

*T  love  ugly  people,"  Mrs.  Mac.  had  once  said  to  me  at 
a  Friday  night  german,  "because  nine  times  out  of  ten 
they're  so  kind  and  unselfish."  These  words  of  wisdom  I 
repeated  to  the  Fraulein  Pilsener.  She  looked  at  me,  and  a 
smile  rippled  across  her  stolid,  putty-coloured  German 
features.    From  that  moment  we  were  fast  friends. 

For  the  first  two  days  both  Jimmy  and  Mrs.  McVickar  en- 
joyed rest,  perfect  and  complete  intellectually  and  morally, 
but  not  physically.  From  both  these  superior  beings  Father 
Neptune  exacted  the  most  rigorous  tribute.  His  humbler 
subjects,  Fraulein  Pilsener  and  myself — hail,  blessed  doc- 
trine of  compensation ! — were  happily  exempted.  However, 
toward  the  close  of  the  third  day  our  handsome  pair  ap- 
peared on  deck,  and  with  the  assistance  of  the  captain,  the 
first  officer,  myself,  the  Fraulein,  a  maid,  and  Jimmy's  valet, 
succeeded  in  installing  themselves  side  by  side  in  two  im- 
mense Bombay  chairs.  An  hour  later,  seeing  Jimmy  hasten 
242 


Jimmy's  Rest  Cure 

below,  I  took  his  vacant  seat.  Mrs.  Mac.  smiled  up  at  me 
wanly,  but  graciously. 

"Jimmy,"  she  said,  ''has  a  distinctly  precious  person- 
ality, but  at  present  he  is  not  himself.  He  was  quite  rude  to 
me  just  now." 

"Sea-sick,"  I  said  curtly. 

"I  know.  But  a  man  of  breeding  should  never  forget 
himself.     He  should  rise  superior  even  to  sea-sickness." 

"But  he  did  rise,"  I  said,  thinking  of  Jimmy's  rapid  flight. 

"I  asked  him  to  pick  up  my  vinaigrette — thank  you  so 
much !  yes,  that's  it — and  he  coolly  told  me  that  my  want  of 
consideration  shocked  him.    Fancy  that  from  Jimmy!" 

I  sympathised,  and  we  talked  upon  indifferent  topics  for 
twenty  minutes.  Then  I  went  below.  I  found  my  hero  in 
his  cabin,  and  asked  him  how  he  did. 

"I'm  almost  sorry  I  started,"  he  answered  ruefully.  "What 

fool  christened  this  d d  ocean  the  Pacific?  .  .  .  By-the- 

bye,  George,  Mrs.  Mac.  showed  me  the  cloven  foot  just  now. 
She  was  positively  snarky  because  I  refused  to  pick  up  her 
cursed  scent-bottle.  You  don't  mind  my  swearing,  do  you? 
It  braces  me  up.  She  knows  my  unfortunate  condition,  and 
the  unreason  of  the  request  quite  staggered  me.  It  argued, 
so  I  told  myself,  a  surprising  intellectual  weakness." 

"Temporary  aberration,  doubtless." 

"I  suppose  so. — Now,  Kitty,  with  all  her  faults,  would 
have  shown  more  regard  for  a  poor  stomach-twisted  devil." 

"But  Kitty,  according  to  you,  is  a  fool." 

"Don't  be  brutal,  George.  I  never  called  my  wife  a  fool. 
That  would  be  bad  form.  Foolish — yes :  a  fool — no.  Poor 
little  girl !  She  cried  bitterly  when  she  kissed  me  good- 
bye.— Gad !  there  goes  the  dinner  bell.  Tell  my  man  to 
bring  me  a  quail,  broiled,  and  a  pint  of  Piper  Heidsieck, 
brut.  After  dinner  you  can  come  and  read  to  me  if  you 
like.     I  have  Bourget's  last  novel,  but  I  don't  know  that  I 

243 


Some  Happenings 

could  stand  your  French  accent.  The  least  thing  upsets  my 
confounded  inside." 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  describe  in  detail  the  enchanting 
days  of  the  voyage  out.  Nor  may  I  inflict  upon  a  patient 
reader  the  rhapsodies  of  Mrs.  MacVickar  and  Jimmy.  One 
sample  will  suffice. 

"I  could  sail  on  like  this,"  I  overheard  her  murmur,  "for 
ever!     This,  Jimmy,  is  rest  indeed." 

"Rest,  my  dear  Mabel,"  he  replied,  "but  not  stagnation. 
New  processes  are  at  work  within  us.  I  can  feel  the 
quickening  throes  of  thought.  I  am  pregnant  with  po- 
tentialities. I  could  face  that  dunce  Tom  Bolton,  and 
brave  his  platitudes  with  impunity.  A  week  ago  the  mere 
sight  of  the  fellow  provoked  an  attack  of  nervous  prostra- 
tion.    Yes,  Mabel,  this  is  repose,  and  recuperation." 

The  two-headed  nightingale  was  no  more  inseparable  than 
they;  but  the  brazen  effrontery  of  their  everlasting  tete-a- 
tete  evoked  no  scandal,  not  even  gossip.  It  was  tacitly 
taken  for  granted  that  these  were  privileged  characters, 
chartered  flirts,  so  to  speak,  above  and  beyond  criticism. 
The  captain,  who  sat  between  them  at  meals,  explained  mat- 
ters to  the  Fraulein  and  myself. 

"They're  too  deep  for  our  soundings,"  said  the  honest 
old  salt,  significantly  tapping  his  weather-beaten  forehead. 
"Intellectual,  I  mean.  Bless  you,  I  don't  know  half  the  time 
what  they're  talkin  about.  But  they're  the  prettiest  pair 
and  the  politest  pair  I  ever  sailed  with,  and — good  as  gold. 
I  understand"  (he  turned  to  me,  and  lowered  his  gruff 
tones)  "that  Major  MacVickar  drinks!" 

"Like  a  fish." 

"You  don't  say  so !    What  drove  him  to  it  ?" 

"A  woman,  I  believe." 

Fraulein  Pilsener,  worthy  creature,  waddled  away  cough- 
ing violently.  I  had  touched,  I  think,  her  funny  spot.  Her 
244 


Jimmy's  Rest  Cure 

eyes  are  small,  but  she  knows  how  to  use  them,  and  I  had  in- 
ferred from  a  few  disjointed  phrases  that  she  Hked  the 
Major  and  was  sorry  for  him.  The  captain,  however, 
condemned  him  roundly,  in  language  impossible  to  repeat. 

Upon  arrival  at  the  hotel  at  Honolulu  something  worthy 
of  record  transpired.  Mrs.  MacVickar  required  four  of 
the  very  best  rooms  for  herself  and  children.  One  of  these 
— only  one,  as  he  piteously  observed  at  the  time — Jimmy 
wanted  for  himself ;  but  Mrs.  Mac.  would  not  let  him  have 
it. 

"Can  Mabel  be  selfish?"  he  asked  me  earnestly.  ''Can 
a  woman  with  a  face  like  an  angel's  be  selfish?  If  so,  my 
faith  in  the  sex  is  shattered.  Selfishness,"  he  concluded 
emphatically,  *'is  the  unpardonable  sin." 

We  met  many  very  pleasant  people  in  the  Islands,  and 
were  entertained  handsomely.  Mrs.  Mac.  had  provided  her- 
self with  what  she  called  a  "stunning  frock  or  two."  It  is 
to  be  regretted  that  our  San  Francisco  climate  does  not  lend 
itself  to  the  wearing  of  diaphanous  apparel.  Tulle,  baptiste, 
gauze  are  positively  indecent  in  connection  with  fogs,  dust, 
and  trade  winds.  But  beneath  the  Tropic  of  Cancer — that 
is  another  afifair!  Now,  Jimmy,  for  a  man  of  brain,  set 
an  extravagant  value  upon  chiffons.  Exquisite  forms  of 
marine  algas  provoked  his  ridicule,  but  a  Virot  hat  stimu- 
lated all  that  was  best  in  him;  and  the  sight  of  Mrs.  ^lac, 
her  slender  figure  and  delicate  features  tenderly  outlined 
against  a  background  of  tropical  vegetation,  stirred  his 
pulses  to  ecstasy. 

"Gad !"  he  said  to  me :  "it's  an  inspiration  to  look  at  her — 
a  privilege  to  see  her  smile.  Men  have  died  for  less.  She 
isn't  flesh  and  blood,  George.  She's  a  Greek  lyric  set  to 
Mascagni's  music." 

I  thought  of  the  Greek  lyric's  appetite  (an  amazing 
one  for  a  lady  of  her  weight),  and  was  stricken  dumb. 

245 


Some  Happenings 

To  tell  the  truth,  I  was  seriously  alarmed.  In  a  sense  I  was 
responsible  for  Jimmy.  Had  I  undertaken  a  task  beyond 
my  strength? 

We  dined  that  night  at  the  British  consul's,  and  met  there 
an  Englishman,  the  Honourable  Bertie  FitzUrse,  a  superb 
animal,  with  Plantagenet  blood  coursing  through  his  veins, 
and  a  four-inch-high  collar  around  his  noble  throat.  This 
gentleman  was  immensely  struck  with  Mrs.  Mac.  During 
dinner — I  remember  Jimmy  was  exceptionally  brilliant — he 
gave  his  undivided  attention  to  the  menu,  but  on  the  veran- 
dah afterwards  he  had  his  innings.  Somebody  mentioned 
Sandow  and  feats  of  strength.  The  Hon.  Bertie  opened  his 
mouth  and  began  to  talk.  Respect  for  the  peerage  kept 
most  of  us  silent,  and,  besides,  we  were  interested.  From 
words  the  mighty  FitzUrse  passed  to  deeds.  He  picked  up 
Jimmy  with  one  hand  and  held  him  aloft !  Mrs.  Mac. 
gasped,  and  a  peculiar  light  shone  in  her  velvety  eyes ;  her 
perfect  lips  parted ;  her  bosom  heaved.  Then  the  Briton 
bared  his  good  right  arm  and  gave  us  an  instructive  object- 
lesson  upon  the  physiology  of  bodily  exercise.  We  were 
charmed :  Mrs.  Mac.  most  of  all.  When  FitzUrse  had  fin- 
ished he  modestly  withdrew  from  the  centre  of  our  circle; 
and  Mrs.  Mac. — who  always  took  the  initiative  with  men — 
beckoned  him  to  her  side. 

Jimmy  was  cut  out! 

*1  shouldn't  care  a  rush,"  he  confessed  to  me,  some  forty- 
eight  hours  later,  ''but  this  fellow  is  a  clown,  a  Tony  Lump- 
kin. His  brain — d — n  him — is  in  inverse  ratio  to  his  muscle. 
Oh  Lord!  oh  Lord!" 

"Never  mind,"  L replied  soothingly:  "you  can  give  your- 
self up  completely  to  the  rest  cure.  The  female  everywhere 
introduces  the  element  of  strife.  Let  us  eliminate  her.  Rest 
for  you,  with  Mrs.  Mac.  around,  is  unthinkable." 

"Heaven  knows,"  he  moaned,  "that  the  Bolton  intellig^ence 
246 


Jimmy's  Rest  Cure 

is  below  the  average ;  but  do  you  suppose  Kitty  would  prefer 
that  muscular  monstrosity  to  me?" 

I  assured  him  gravely  that  in  my  opinion  Kitty  would  be 
loyal  to  him  through  thick  and  thin — even  if  he  lost  his 
nose  and  bought  his  cravats  ready  made. 

Several  days  passed,  and  the  flirtation  between  Mrs.  Mc- 
Vlckar  and  the  big  Englishman  became  the  talk  of  the  town. 
Jimmy  w^as  abjectly  miserable,  and  complained  of  insomnia. 
The  rest  cure,  he  admitted,  was  a  failure.  Finally  Fitz- 
Urse  invited  Mrs.  Mac.  and  a  select  party  to  witness  the 
hida-hida  in  all  its  original  glory.  He  took  infinite  pains  to 
procure  the  very  best  dancers,  and  the  performance  took 
place  by  moonlight  in  a  secluded  grove.  I  am  not  squeam- 
ish, but  long  before  the  close  of  this  most  remarkable  enter- 
tainment Jimmy  and  I  left — disgusted! 

"I  can  stand  a  good  deal,  George,"  he  muttered,  "but 
this  is  horrible." 

Mrs.  Mac,  however,  sat  the  dance  out,  and  described  it 
afterwards  as  a  m^ost  luminous  experience !  Jimmy,  meet- 
ing FitzUrse  the  next  morning,  cut  him  dead  in  the  pres- 
ence of  several  persons.  The  Englishman  bit  his  lip,  and 
steadily  confronted  him. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this,  sir?"  he  asked  savagely. 

*lt  means,"  replied  Jimmy,  looking  him  straight  in  the 
eye,  ''that  I  decline  the  honour  of  your  acquaintance. 
You're  a  blackguard,  sir;  a  disgrace  to  your  family  and 
your  country." 

The  Honourable  Bertie  raised  his  mighty  arm — and  let  it 

fall. 

'T  shall  not  thrash  you,"  he  said  huskily,  "for  obvious 
reasons;  but  we  are  in  the  Sandwich  Islands,  and  unless 
you  give  me  satisfaction  in  the  old-fashioned  way,  I  shall 
pull  your  nose  publicly  and  post  you  at  the   club  as  a 

coward." 

247 


Some  Happenings 

"I  shall  meet  you,"  said  Jimmy,  smiling,  "with  infinite 
pleasure;  when  and  where  you  please." 

Of  course  duelling  is  absurd  and  indefensible  from  the 
American  point  of  view.  And  yet  I  took  a  certain  delight 
in  arranging  the  preliminaries  of  this  now  historic  combat. 
I  hoped  for  the  best.  Jimmy  was  an  excellent  shot  with  a 
pistol,  and  the  Britisher  presented  an  enormous  mark.  Nev- 
ertheless, Jimmy  received  a  bullet  in  his  thigh  which  nearly 
severed  the  femoral  artery,  and  FitzUrse  retired  from  the 
field  of  honour  without  a  scratch.  Public  opinion,  however, 
set  dead  against  him,  and  he  sailed  for  Tahiti.  Mrs.  Mac. 
returned  to  San  Francisco  by  the  next  boat.  I  did  not 
wish  her  hon  voyage. 

So  Jimmy  and  I  were  left  alone  in  Honolulu,  and  at  one 
time  I  feared  that  he — poor  fellow — would  remain  there  for 
ever.  But  a  capital  constitution  and  a  clever  surgeon  pulled 
him  through  the  crisis,  and,  as  soon  as  it  was  practicable,  we 
moved  up  to  the  mountains.  There  the  rest  cure  proper 
commenced. 

One  lovely  night  we  were  sitting  side  by  side,  and  Jimmy 
was  talking  hopefully  of  a  return  to  California.  He  had 
received  that  morning  a  letter  from  his  wife,  which  he  read 
carefully,  I  noted,  and  reread. 

''George,"  he  said  seriously,  ''these  months  here  must 
have  played  the  deuce  with  your  business." 

"That's  all  right,  Jimmy :  don't  mention  it.  I  have  pre- 
pared a  capital  paper  for  the  Microscopical  Society." 

"You  are  a  trump !"  he  continued.  "Tell  me :  did  you 
come  to  the  Islands  with  me  merely  to  fuss  with  a  micro- 
scope ?" 

"No." 

"You  came,  then,  on  my  account  ?" 

"No." 

He  pulled  nervously  at  his  blonde  moustache. 
248 


Jimmy's  Rest  Cure 

**I  came,  Jimmy,  on  Kitty's  account.  You  may  as  well 
know  that  your  wife  was,  once,  the  one  woman  in  the  world 
for  me.  I  know  her  possibly  better  than  you  do.  She  is 
one  in  ten  thousand.  She  is  sound  to  the  core.  Patriotic, 
honest,  artless,  and  true  as  steel.  She  and  her  brother  pre- 
fer to  spend  their  money  where  it  was  made — in  California. 
They  think,  both  of  them,  more  of  others  than  of  them- 
selves.   This  is  the  woman  you  have  called  a  fool !" 

I  spoke  hotly,  torn  by  conflicting  emotions. 

"How  you  despise  me !"  he  murmured  hoarsely.  "How 
you  must  hate  me !" 

"Not  at  all,"  I  replied  sharply.  "On  the  contrary,  Jimmy, 
I  have  a  sincere  regard  for  you ;  otherwise  I  should  not 
have  spoken  to-night.  You  have  made  a  blunder,  an  almost 
unpardonable  blunder  for  a  man  of  your  intelligence,  but 
you  may  live  to  retrieve  it." 

"I  can  retrieve  it,"  cried  Jimmy,  "and,  by  Heaven,  I 
will." 


249 


XV 

BEANFEASTERS 

T  ONG  ago  I  was  seized  with  a  desire  to  visit  Epping 
-■--'  Forest  as  a  beanfeaster.  Sally  Martin  arranged  the 
affair  for  me.  Sally  had  helped  me  before.  She  sold  hats 
in  a  milliner's  shop  in  the  Mile  End  Road,  and  my  thirst 
for  knowledge  in  regard  to  many  things  connected  with 
hats  was  slaked  by  her,  although  at  first  she  obviously  con- 
sidered my  questions  indiscreet,  if  not  impudent.  How- 
ever, when  she  learned  that  I  worked  for  my  living,  as  she 
did,  and  that  my  business  was  to  ask  questions  and  record 
the  answers,  her  suspicions  melted  into  sympathy  and 
pity. 

"Yer  must  'ear  a  lot  o'  lies,"  she  remarked. 

"In  my  line,"  said  I,  "lies  fetch  as  much  as — and  some- 
times more  than — truth." 

"Yer  line?" 

"Penny-a-line,  Sally.  It  comes  to  more  than  that  now, 
but  the  writing  of  fancy  articles  is  not  much  better  paid 
than  the  making  of  them,"  and  I  glanced  at  the  hat  in  her 
hand. 

"Lor!"  said  Sally,  with  an  appreciative  grin,  "I'd  like  ter 
'ear  of  a  tryde  that  was  overpydt,  I  would." 

Thus  our  friendship  began. 

After  that  I  often  dropped  in  to  see  Sally.     I  knew  and 

liked  the  man  who  owned  the  shop,  and  he  told  me  that 

although  Sally  was  a  handful,  he  counted  her  a  good  sort, 

and  straight.     One  day,  by  mere  chance,  I  was  able  to  do 

250 


Beanfeasters 

the  girl  a  service,  and  the  gratitude  in  her  nice  brown  eyes 
was  pleasant  to  see.  Being  the  kind  of  young  person  who 
fidgets  under  a  sense  of  obligation,  she  asked  me  promptly 
if  there  were  anything  she  could  do  for  me. 

''I  want  to  go  to  a  beanfeast,"  said  I — "a  jolly  beanfeast, 
from  which  your  sex,  Sally,  is  not  excluded." 

"Gam!     You?" 

"Why  not?" 

Sally  reflected,  a  frown  between  her  eyes.  She  had  the 
wit  to  perceive  what  I  wanted,  and  also  the  difficulties  of 
the  enterprise.  Then  she  smiled,  and  soon  the  smile  became 
a  grin,  and  the  grin  a  laugh. 

"It  would  be  a  lark,"  she  exclaimed;  and  I  knew  that 
the  thing  was  done. 

I  met  her  that  same  day  at  the  corner  of  Brick  Lane, 
after  business  hours,  to  clinch  the  matter.  Sally  was  sim- 
ply bubbling  over  with  the  humour  of  the  adventure. 

"I  surpose,"  said  she,  rather  shyly,  "that  yer  know  I've 
got  a  young  man?" 

"Only  one?"  said  I. 

"One's  enough  fer  me.  Too  much.  I'll  give  it  to  yer 
— stright.  'E's  too  cock-a-'oop  ter  please  me.  And  I  told 
'im  so,  only  las'  Sunday.  Per-raps  I  spoke  shawp-like — 
anywy,  he  got  short  in  'is  temper,  and  I'd  like  ter  teach 
'im  that  he  ain't  the  only  pebble  on  the  shore.  Now,  'im 
and  me  was  goin'  to  a  beanfeast  next  Toosday  week,  and 
if  yer  like  ter  come  with  me  instid  of  'im,  why,  just  sy 
so." 

I  foresaw  complications,  but  with  Sally's  eye  on  me  I 
was  not  going  to  mention  them.  "I  shall  be  delighted," 
said  I. 

She  looked  me  over  carefully.  "  'E's  an  orful  jealous 
chap." 

"I  don't  blame  him,  Sally." 

251 


Some  Happenings 

"But  lor!  yer  know  how  ter  tike  care  o'  yerself,  and  if 
the  mug  should  'it  yer,  why,  'it  'im  back — it'll  do  'im  good." 

"I  shall  certainly  defend  myself,"  said  I.  After  that  we 
fell  to  discussion  of  the  details.  I  was  to  pass  as  an  Ameri- 
can, a  sort  of  cousin  from  California,  a  role  I  was  well  able 
to  assume,  having  spent  many  years  in  the  Golden  State. 
I  begged  Sally  not  to  worry  about  my  appearance,  and  she 
told  me  frankly  that  she  was  only  worrying  about  her  own. 
From  what  she  added  I  inferred  that  I  might  expect  a 
toilette  quite  out  of  the  ordinary.  "As  fer  yer  togs,"  she 
concluded,  "I'd  like  yer  ter  do  the  swell.  I  sy — what  shall 
I  call  yer?" 

"All  Americans  are  colonels,"  said  I,  remembering  Paul 
Bloiiet's  remarks  on  the  subject.  "You  might  call  me — 
Colonel— eh?" 

"Yus — that's  prime.  Lor !  yer'll  be  a  credit  to  me.  Kur- 
nel!  Oh,  I  sy!  James  Parker'll  'ave  a  fit.  Yus:  Kur- 
nel " 

"Colonel  Washington  Bludyer." 

"Wash — fer  short,  comin'  'ome,  when  yer  arm "  she 

stopped  short. 

"Is  where  it  ought  to  be,"  I  observed  carelessly.  Sally 
laughed  so  immoderately  that  a  bobby  eyed  us  suspiciously. 

"From  Cuba,"  said  I.  "Colonel  Washington  Bludyer 
from  Cuba  and  California,  visiting  his  mother's  relations  in 
the  old  country." 

"Wot  a  gyme!"  said  Sally. 

When  the  Tuesday  came,  I  arrayed  myself  in  black,  which 
in  East  End  circles  always  bespeaks  the  man  of  substance. 
I  was  careful  to  wear  a  diamond  collar  stud,  and  a  white 
satin  tie  carefully  pulled  down  so  as  to  Swow  the  stud.  A 
large  diamond  ring,  a  splendid  gold  chain,  and  a  big  wide- 
awake hat  completed  a  costume  which — I  flattered  myself 
— would  challenge  attention  and  admiration.  The  ring  and 
252 


Beanfeasters 

the  stud  were  wonderful  value  for  the  money  I  paid  for 
them:  three  and  ninepence  half-penny  at  a  shop  near  Lud- 
gate  Circus.  Sally  was  waiting  for  me  about  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  from  the  tavern  from  which  our  brake  was  to 
start,  and  when  she  saw  me  her  eyes  sparkled, with  appre- 
ciation. She  herself  was  dressed  entirely  in  white — white 
"Gainsborough"  hat,  white  shoes,  white  belt,  white  thread 
gloves,  and  a  white  parasol.  I  had  a  nosegay  of  flowers 
for  her,  which  I  pinned  into  her  belt.  In  doing  so,  Sally 
caught  sight  of  the  splendid  gem  upon  my  little  finger. 

"Is  that  reel?" 

*'Sally,  this  is  the  best  that  can  be  bought — for  the  money. 
Have  you  seen  Mr.  James  Parker  ?" 

"Yus — ^Jymes  is  coming.  And  'e's  got  comp'ny  too.  A 
young  lidy  from  Poplar.  He  interdooced  me  to  'er,  just 
now.  I  tole  'im  I'd  return  the  compliment,  and  when  he 
arst  oo  was  comin'  with  me,  I  sez  'the  curick.'  I  wouldn't 
miss  'is  fyce  for  anythink  when  I  say  yer  nyme:  Colonel 
Washington  Bludyer." 

"Wash.,"  said  I,  "when " 

"Yus;Iknow." 

We  walked  on  in  silence,  attracting  much  attention — 
and  some  chaflP — from  the  foot-passengers.  Sally,  I  noted, 
was  smiling,  but  pensive. 

Presently  she  said  softly :  "Jymes  thinks  'e  knows  every- 
think — so — if  you  know  somethink  'e  don't  know — why,  let 
'im  'ave  it." 

At  the  tavern  we  found  the  company  assembled  and  wait- 
ing for  us — the  last  to  arrive.  This  being  a  subscription 
affair,  and  not  the  ordinary  beanfeast,  introductions  were 
necessary  and  in  order.  Sally  presented  Mr.  James  Parker, 
a  good-looking  young  fellow  with  heavy  jaws  and  shoulders, 
who  eyed  me  with  suspicion  tempered  by  surprise. 

253 


Some  Happenings 

"Never  knowed  you  'ad  American  relations,"  he  observed. 
''Kurnel— eh?" 

"Just  back  from  the  wars,"  said  Sally. 

Mr.  Parker  sniffed  incredulously,  and  begged  to  intro- 
duce Miss  Amelia  Huggins,  in  a  brand-new  shepherd's  plaid 
costume,  crowned  with  a  stunning  red  velvet  toque.  She 
was  not  nearly  so  pretty  as  Sally,  and  seemed  to  be  much 
in  awe  of  Mr.  Parker.  After  many  "after  you,  sir's,"  and 
"now  then,  miss,"  we  packed  ourselves  into  the  brake  and 
drove  gaily  off. 

Sally  sat  next  to  me,  and  on  the  other  side,  but  lower 
down,  was  Mr.  Parker  and  Miss  Huggins.  At  first  the 
company  politely  confined  itself  to  banalities.  The  fact 
that  we  had  only  two  horses  instead  of  four  obscured  for 
a  season  the  prospect  of  a  delightful  day ;  but  at  The  Ram, 
where  we  descended,  and  where  Hquid  refreshment  was  of- 
fered to,  and  accepted  by,  the  ladies,  the  talk  began  to 
bubble  into  personalities.  I  said  little  (somewhat  to  Sally's 
annoyance).  Mr.  Parker,  however,  talked  at  score  and  with 
ease  upon  all  subjects  within  (and  without)  his  ken.  He 
displayed  carefully  cultivated  gifts  of  repartee,  exchanging 
pleasantries  with  the  ladies  of  the  party,  and  inciting  to 
wrath  and  abuse  the  drivers  of  vehicles  and  riders  of  bi- 
cycles whom  we  encountered  upon  the  road.  Miss  Huggins 
sat  beside  him,  sweetly  appreciative  and  quivering  with  gig- 
gles. Finally,  encouraged  by  my  silence  (as  I  had  hoped 
he  would  be),  Mr.  Parker  began  to  single  me  out  for  more 
particular  attention.  It  was  "Kurnel"  here,  and  "Kumel" 
there,  till  Miss  Huggins  became  hysterical,  and  Sally  was 
biting  her  pretty  lips  with  annoyance.  I  bided  my  time, 
replying  in  monosyllables  to  Mr.  Parker's  facetious  ques- 
tions. 

"I  suppose,  Kurnel,  yerVe  killed  yer  man— eh?" 
"Yes." 
254 


Beanfeasters 

"Reely!  Now,  Kurnel,  to  oblige  the  lidies,  won't  yer 
tell  us  all  abaht  it.  'Ow  did  yer  do  it?  Sword,  dagger, 
pistol,  rifle — catterpult?" 

I  shook  my  head  mournfully. 

''Come,  Kurnel,  the  lidies  is  wyting.  Did  yer  sly  'im  with 
yer  humberella  ?" 

I  caught  the  eyes  of  the  fair,  and  answered  in  a  Mark 
Twain  drawl,  "I  talked  him  to  death." 

Mr.  Parker  perceptibly  winced,  and  the  colour  flowed 
back  into  Sally's  cheeks. 

*'Did  yer?    I  am  surprised." 

"Since  that  day,"  I  continued,  'Tve  been  scared  of  shoot- 
ing off — my  mouth.  How  many  men,  or  women,  have  you 
killed,  Mr.— er— Barker?" 

*'My  nyme  is  Parker." 

"A  relation  of  the  famous  preacher?  He  was  a  talker — 
too/*     Mr.  Parker  shuffled  his  foot  and  glared  at  Sally. 

"Don't  mike  luvin'  eyes  at  me,  Jymes,"  said  that  young 
lady.  "Ain't  yer  goin'  ter  answer  Cousin  Washington's 
question?  'Ow  many  men  and  women  'ave  yer  torked  ter 
death?" 

"I  ain't  killed  a  man — yet,"  said  Mr.  Parker  darkly,  re- 
lapsing into  moody  silence,  which  was  not  broken  till  we 
pledged  each  other  health  and  happiness  and  "another  five 
bob  a  week"  at  the  next  stopping-place,  in  Walthamstow. 
After  Walthamstow  we  began  to  catch  glimpses  of  the 
country.  Some  fine  elms  bordered  the  road,  and  beyond 
these  were  green  fields  wherein  sleek  cows  comfortably 
grazed.  The  houses  too  seemed  less  grimy.  Pink  bricks, 
white  stone  facings,  lavender-coloured  tiles  challenged  the 
admiration  of  the  beanfeasters. 

"Lor !"  exclaimed  Sally.  "  'Ow  I  should  like  ter  five  in 
one  o'  them  cottages,  with  the  right  person,"  she  added,  cast- 
ing a  coquettish  glance  at  me. 

255 


Some  Happenings 

"Oh,  yus,"  sighed  little  Miss  Huggins.  "It  would  be 
'evving." 

"It  might  be  'ell  for  the  wrong  person,"  said  Mr.  Parker, 
doubling  an  enormous  fist. 

"Jymes !"  observed  Sally  severely. 

"I  don't  pick  my  words,"  said  Mr.  Parker. 

"Pick  'em?  I  shouldn't  think  yer  did.  I  'ope,  Cousin 
Washington  '11  excuse  yer  ignerunce,  Jymes.  I  told  'im  yer 
bark  was  wuss  than  yer  bite — and  mentioning  bites,  I'm 
getting  peckish.    Oo  ordered  dinner?" 

A  cheery  little  man,  who  carried  a  comet,  replied  prompt- 
ly, "I  ordered  a  cold  cullation." 

Then  he  mentioned  beef,  ham,  chicken,  and  tartlets,  con- 
cluding with  a  suggestion :  "We  shall  'ave  time  f er  a  mouch 
round  in  the  forest  before " 

"And  after,"  said  Sally,  nudging  me. 

Everybody  smiled  in  joyful  anticipation,  except  Mr. 
Parker. 

"Yer  don't  look  yerself,  Jymes,"  pursued  the  relentless 
Sally.  "Per-raps  that  lawst  'awf-an'-'awf  was  too  much  fer 
yer.    Yer  ain't  accustomed  ter  liquor — are  yer?" 

To  this  quip  Mr.  Parker  vouchsafed  no  reply,  but  began 
to  pay  belated  attention  to  Miss  Huggins,  insisting  upon 
holding  her  hand,  because — he  said — the  forest  was  full  of 
wild  beasts.  Miss  Huggins  murmured  that  she  feared  noth- 
ing in  Mr.  Parker's  company,  and  thereupon  blushed  so 
prettily  that  Sally  was  moved  to  remark  that  there  were 
beasts  and  beasts,  and  that  the  most  to  be  feared  were  two- 
legged  ones.  Upon  this  Mr.  Parker  redoubled  his  kind  at- 
tentions. 

By  this  time  we  had  reached  our  destination,  a  tavern  in 
the  heart  of  the  forest ;  and  finding  that  the  cold  collation 
would  not  be  ready  for  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  the  cor- 
net-player's suggestion  of  a  "mouch"  round  the  forest  met 
256 


Beanfeasters 

with  general  approval.  Mr.  Parker  and  his  Amelia  were 
amongst  the  first  to  disappear,  and  Sally's  eyes  were  spar- 
kling when  she  proposed  that  we  should  "mouch"  in  the 
opposite  direction.  So  we  set  forth  nimbly,  but  our  pace 
slackened  as  we  walked;  and  presently,  finding  a  mossy 
bank  and  a  sheltering  oak,  Sally  sat  down  and  (reading 
sympathy  in  ray  face)  burst  into  tears. 

''I  'ate  'im!    /  'ate  'im!    I  ate  'im  !"  she  exclaimed. 

"But  he  loves  you,"  I  ventured  to  remark. 

**Yer  reely  think  so  !     No  kid  ?" 

"I  am  absolutely  convinced  of  it." 

"  'E  ought  ter  be  ashymed  of  'isself  ter  treat  a  lidy  the 
wy  'e's  treating " 

''Miss  Huggins?"  I  remarked. 

"Oh,  'er?    I  wasn't  thinkin'  of  'er." 

"I  am  very  sorry  for  Miss  Huggins,"  said  I.  '*Your 
friend,  Mr.  Parker,  is  raising  hopes  which " 

"Wot  is  'e  doin'^  I'd  like  ter  know?" 

"She's  very  pretty,  Sally." 

"She  ain't.  A  silly  slink — she  is :  a  giggley  thing  out  of 
a  sweet-factory !" 

"Play  the  game,  Sally,  and  dry  your  eyes.  If  James 
Parker  saw  you  now " 

Sally  dabbed  at  her  eyes  with  a  wonderful  lace  handker- 
chief ;  then  she  began  to  laugh,  and  I  laughed  with  her. 

"I'm  the  silly,"  she  confessed,  as  we  wended  our  steps 
towards  the  tavern;  "but  'e  needn't  'ave  squeezed  'er  'and 
so  'ard,  need  'e?" 

I  said  that  excuses  might  be  found  for  Mr.  Parker,  and 
that  such  engineers  as  he  might  be  hoist  with  their  own 
petard.  Sally  took  the  hint.  During  the  dinner  which 
followed  I  found  myself  actually  blushing  beneath  the  ar- 
dent glances  of  my  companion;  we  drank  beer  out  of  the 
same  glass  (for  luck — so  said  Sally)  ;  we  shared  our  salad; 

^S7 


Some  Happenings 

we  pulled  a  merry-thought ;  we  whispered  together  and 
laughed.  It  was  not  wise,  but  who  is  wise — at  a  bean- 
feast? Mr.  Parker  scowled  at  me,  but  I  smiled  sweetly  in 
return,  and  Amelia  Huggins  consoled  herself  with  the 
tartlets. 

"I'm  just  dyin'  ter  get  back  into  the  forest,"  said  naughty 
Sally.  "It's  too  'evvingly  there — ain't  it,  Cousin  Washing- 
ton?" 

"Carding  of  Heden — snike  and  all,"  sneered  Mr.  Parker. 

The  company  perceived  that  Mr.  Parker  was  not  happy, 
but  an  abundance  of  food  and  drink  made  the  fact  of  no 
consequence.  When  the  cornet-player  gave  us  the  Absent- 
minded  Beggar^  with  variations,  everybody — except  Mr. 
Parker — broke  into  song,  and  the  ''cullation"  was  pro- 
nounced a  tearing  success. 

"Lost  yer  voice,  Jymes?"  demanded  Sally,  across  the  nar- 
row table. 

"I  know  wot  I've  lost,  and  I  sez  a  good  riddance." 

"If  you  and  Miss  'Uggins  lost  it  in  the  forest,  per-raps 
yer'd  better  go  back  and  look  fer  it." 

I  feared  that  Sally  was  about  to  betray  herself;  but  for- 
tunately Mr.  Parker  was  in  no  mood  for  subtlety  of  anal- 
ysis. Indeed,  he  refused  to  budge  from  the  tavern,  and 
accepted  with  alacrity  a  challenge  to  a  game  of  quoits.  Miss 
Huggins  sat  down,  very  disconsolate,  to  watch  the  game. 
Sally  and  I  wandered  away — arm-in-arm. 

"Lor !"  she  murmured,  when  we  were  out  of  earshot,  but 
not  out  of  sight:  "wot  a  gyme  this  is — Wash!" 

I  slipped  my  arm  round  her  waist,  and  the  "Cainsbor- 
ough"  hat  dropped  over  my  shoulder.  Whatever  qualms 
I  may  have  had  vanished  when  I  reflected  that  Mr.  Parker's 
case  called  for  drastic  treatment.  We  wandered  on  very 
slowly,  and  then  Sally,  who  had  peeped  back,  whispered: 
"Oh  my  !  Jymes  is  f  ollerin'  us." 
258 


Beanfeasters 

I  did  not  remove  my  arm  from  Sally's  trim  waist,  and 
the  big  white  feather  continued  to  tickle  my  left  ear.  Some 
two  hundred  yards  farther  on  we  were  overtaken  by  Mr. 
Parker.     Sally's  surprise  at  seeing  him  was  incomparable. 

"You,  Jymes?" 

"Yus — me.  I  wish  ter  speak  private  with  this — this — 
gen'leman." 

''Sally/'  said  I,  ''will  you  be  good  enough  to  return  to 
Miss  Huggins:  I'm  sure  she's  feeling  lonesome." 

Sally  eyed  us  nervously.  I  confess  that  the  fire  in  ^Ir. 
Parker's  eye  was  not  likely  to  cool  her  apprehensions — or 
mine.  However,  at  a  nod  from  me,  she  slowly  moved 
away. 

"I  don't  allow  no  liberties  ter  be  tiken  with  that  young 
lidy,"  observed  ^Ir.  Parker.  '1  suppose  that's  pline — as 
pline,"  he  added  insultingly,  "as  yer  hugly  fyce." 

I  began  to  remove  my  coat. 

"  'Old  'ard."  said  Mr.  Parker :  "we'll  find  a  more  sercluded 
spawt,  wheer  we  can  'ave  the  fun  to  ourselves." 

"Fun?    Do  you  call  it  fun  to  have  your  head  punched?" 

"It'll  be  fun  punching  yours,  Kurnel.  I  dessay  it  won't 
be  an  easy  job,  but  I  mean  ter  do  it." 

Accordingly  we  sought  and  found  a  sequestered  glade, 
where — save  for  the  soot  upon  the  ancient  trunks  of  the 
beeches — we  might  have  believed  ourselves  to  be  in  the. 
heart  of  a  virgin  forest.  Here  we  stripped  and  fought.  Pro- 
test, I  had  perceived,  would  be  wasted  and  misapprehended. 
Indeed,  from  the  first,  I  was  sensible  that  the  matter  was 
serious.  I  had  no  wish  to  hurt  Mr.  Parker,  but  he  had  the 
most  strenuous  determination  to  hurt  me ;  and  because  of 
this,  although  I  had  the  advantage  in  height,  skill,  and  even 
strength,  it  seemed  probable  that  if  I  continued  to  act  on 
the  defensive  a  mistake  on  my  part  would  end  in  my  igno- 
minious defeat.    His  rushes  became  wilder  and  fiercer  as  the 

259 


Some  Happenings 

seconds  passed.  Twice  he  almost  had  me ;  the  third  time  I 
countered  him  full  on  the  point  of  the  jaw,  and  he  went 
back  and  down  as  if  he  had  been  shot  by  a  Dum-dum  bul- 
let. While  I  eyed  him  somewhat  sheepishly,  I  heard  a 
rustle  of  skirts,  and  a  woman's  scream. 

"You  b-b-b-rute !"  said  Sally,  falling  on  her  knees  beside 
the  unconscious  Parker. 

Then  she  bent  down  and  kissed  him.  I  saw  the  flicker  of 
Parker's  eyelids,  and  withdrew  quickly,  snatching  my  coat 
and  waistcoat  from  the  ground.  From  behind  the  trunk 
of  one  of  the  beeches,  I  looked  back.  Sally  was  sitting 
on  the  ground,  and  Mr.  Parker's  head  was  in  her  lap! 

Halfway  to  the  tavern  I  met  Miss  Huggins.  She  glanced 
curiously  from  my  face  to  my  hand. 

*'Yer  'and  is  bleeding,"  said  she. 

*'A  bleeding  hand  is  nothing,"  said  I,  "but  a  bleeding  heart. 
Miss  Huggins " 

She  laughed  scornfully.  'T  guessed  'ow  it  was,"  she  ob- 
served ;  "and  I  don't  keer  fer  Mr.  Jymes  Parker.  I  like  you 
much  better,"  she  continued  frankly.  "  'E  torks  too  much, 
'e  does.    I  despise  a  torker." 

There  was  only  the  obvious  thing  to  say.  "Miss  Hug- 
gins," I  murmured,  "if  silence  pleases  you,  let  us  take  a 
little  walk  together — before  tea." 


260 


XVI 

THE  GRAND  SLAM 


JOCK  FFRENCH  was  the  only  child  of  an  Irish  father 
and  a  Scotch  mother.  The  father,  Rory  Ff rench — every- 
body called  him  Rory — broke  his  neck  in  a  steeplechase 
when  Jock  was  seven  years  old;  and  after  this  sad  event 
Mrs.  Ffrench  left  Ireland  and  settled  in  Edinburgh  amongst 
her  own  kinsfolk.  These  good  people  declared  that  Jock 
was  Scotch  through  and  through:  an  assumption  fortified 
by  freckles,  high  cheek-bones,  hair  the  colour  of  Dundee 
marmalade,  and  a  canniness  beyond  his  years.  But  the 
laddie's  eyes  were  undeniably  Irish — an  impudent  blue  en- 
circled by  short  thick  black  lashes :  the  devil-may-care,  leap- 
before-you-look  article,  as  much  out  of  place  in  a  north-of- 
Tweed  countenance  as  a  Kilkenny  cat  at  a  curling  match. 

After  leaving  Cambridge,  where  he  distinguished  him- 
self in  the  Natural  Science  Schools,  Jock  entered  a  London 
firm  of  Scotch  merchants  as  clerk.  The  work  in  and  about 
Mincing  Lane  was  not  to  his  taste,  but  he  stuck  to  it  dog- 
gedly. For  the  rest  he  played  golf  and  cards,  and  read 
every  line  written  on  the  two  subjects  which  most  inter- 
ested him — bridge,  and  hematite  ores. 

When  Jock  was  thirty  years  old  he  met  the  Skibbereens. 
Lord  Skib  had  parted  with  everything  he  possessed  except 
a  rich  brogue  and  a  half-interest  in  as  handsome  a  daughter 
as  ever  came  out  of  Kildare.    On  Diana's  account  the  Skib- 

261 


Some  Happenings 

bereens  moved  to  London,  where  Lady  Skib,  who  had  a 
little  money  of  her  own,  took  a  small  house  in  Chester 
Square  for  the  season.  Lord  Skib  happened  to  be  a  second 
cousin  of  the  late  Rory  Ffrench,  and  he  sought  out  Jock 
at,  Lady  Skib's  request,  because  Amy  Bagot,  her  ladyship's 
great  friend,  had  said  that  dear  Mr.  Ffrench  was  worth  his 
half-million.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Jock  had  saved  about 
two  thousand  pounds,  and  was  earning  only  five  hundred  a 
year;  the  John  French,  also  of  Mincing  Lane,  whom  Mrs. 
Bagot  knew,  spelt  his  name  with  one  "f."  Jock  was  asked 
to  dine  en  famille. 

"Your  poor  father,"  said  his  host,  ''was  a  square  peg  in 
a  round  hole  with  no  bottom  to  it.  Ye  take  me?  He  lost 
life  and  fortune  where  I  lost  mine — at  Punchestown.  It's 
no  bull  I'm  making,  me  boy.  Faith !  when  a  man  loses  his 
money,  he's  in  a  hole  which  it's  no  stretch  of  the  imagination 
to  call  a  grave.  He's  dead.  By  the  same  token,  they  tell 
me  you're  very  much  alive." 

This  allusion  to  the  wealth  that  was  not  his  puzzled  Jock. 

After  dinner  bridge  was  played.  During  the  second  rub- 
ber Jock  revoked  for  the  first  time  in  his  life.  He  had  just 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  Diana  was  the  most  delightful 
girl  he  had  ever  met.  When  he  returned  to  his  modest 
chambers  he  told  his  man  to  bring  him  Burns. 
/'Burns,  sir?" 

"Yes— Burns." 

The  man  brought  him  three  books,  with  a  deprecating 
expression.  "Here's  Foster,  sir,  and  Doe,  and  Dalton ;  but 
I  can't  find  Burns.    Is  it  just  out,  sir?" 

"You're  a  perfect  fool.  I  want  Burns:  Robert  Burns, 
the  poet.  He  lives  on — yes — on  the  top  shelf  of  the  big 
bookcase,  in  three  volumes  bound  in  pale  green  cloth." 

"Shall  I  bring  all  three,  sir?" 

"Certainly." 
262 


The  Grand  Slam 
II 

After  Ascot  Lady  Skib  told  her  husband  and  Diana  that 
Jock  Ffrench  was  an  impostor.  Jock  had  been  in  and  out 
of  the  house  in  Chester  Square  a  score  of  times  at  least. 

''An  impostor,"  repeated  Lord  Skib.  'Taith,  and  he  is 
that!  He  ought  to  be  half  Irish,  but  he's  all  Scotch.  I 
asked  him  for  a  timporary  loan  of  a  thousand,  and  he  re- 
fused me — I  give  ye  my  word." 

"An  impostor !"  exclaimed  Diana. 

"He's  a  poor  man,"  said  Lady  Skib  viciously. 

"Oh— poor  Jock !" 

"You  call  him  Jock,  Diana?" 

"It  would  be  impossible  to  call  him  John.  Has  he  lost 
his  half-million?" 

"He  never  had  it.    He's  a  clerk— a  pauper." 

"^^^^y,  he  gave  me  ten  pounds  yesterday." 

"What  are  you  saying?" 

"For  our  bazaar."  She  laughed  pleasantly.  "He  must 
be  a  good  sort  of — impostor.  And  I  hardly  thanked  him. 
I'm  not  sure  that  I  didn't  accuse  him  of  being  rather  stingy. 
Pook  Jock !" 

She   rose   from  the   breakfast-table,   and   moved    slowly 

away. 

Lady  Skib  looked  at  her  lord.  "Why  did  you  ask  that 
young  man  to  my  house,  Terence?" 

"You  asked  me  to  ask  him,  Amalia." 

*'l  hope  no  mischief  has  been  done.  But  I  fear  that  Diana 
is  interested  in  this  very  commonplace  cousin  of  yours." 

"She's  interested  in  no  man — yet.  She's  me  own  daugh- 
ter, the  sweet  modest  creature." 

"I  can't  afford  to  take  a  house  in  London  next  season," 
said  Lady  Skib  tartly, 

"Rest  easy,  Amalia.     The  child  '11  marry  before  ye  can 

263 


Some  Happenings 

wink  your  eye.  And  she'll  pick  a  winner  too.  Jock  Ff  rench 
is  too  canny  for  the  darlin'.  Faith,  it  comes  out  in  his 
bridge.  Di  was  furious  with  him  last  night.  He  declared 
spades,  holding  a  Yarborough,  and  Di,  his  partner,  held 
the  prettiest  no-trumper  I  ever  saw.  Jock  made  it  plain 
afterwards  that  they'd  have  lost  the  odd  thrick,  but  she 
told  him  to  his  freckled  face  that  he'd  no  dash.  And  divil  a 
bit  o'  dash  has  he.  Now,  Pyndrem  has  dash,  if  you  like. 
And  Pyndrem's  the  boy  I'm  backing." 

Sir  Titus  Pyndrem,  the  millionaire  ironmaster,  had  shown 
Diana  much  attention  in  the  enclosure  at  Ascot  and  else- 
where. It  was  said  of  him  that  he  had  accumulated  a  large 
fortune  by  using  other  folks'  brains,  which  plainly  proves 
that  he  had  plenty  of  his  own. 

Lady  Skib's  handsome  face  brightened.  "Your  boy  is 
past  forty,"  she  murmured;  "but  I'm  told  that  he  always 
gets  what  he  wants.  Certainly  he  wants  Diana.  And  he 
has  good  looks  and  good  manners.  A  propos,  we  dine  with 
him  to-night  at  Claridge's." 

"And  I'll  drink  his  health,  Amalia,  in  his  own  wine.  Long 
life  to  him — and  to  our  blessed  chyild !" 

The  Skibbereens  dined  with  Sir  Titus,  went  on  with  him 
to  the  opera,  and  thence  to  a  ball  in  Park  Lane,  where  Diana 
found  Jock  awaiting  her.  She  saw  that  he  was  nervous  and 
excited.  Presently,  when  they  were  alone,  she  asked  if  any- 
thing had  happened. 

"Well,"  he  said  slowly,  "I've  something  on  my  mind, 
something  of  tremendous  importance  to — me.  Something 
which  has  kept  me  awake  ever  since  I  met  you." 

"Oh !" 

"And  now  I  must  m-m-make  a  declaration.  The — what 
do  you  call  it? — the  psychological  moment — has  come." 

"Has  it?"    Diana  played  nervously  with  her  fan. 
264 


The  Grand  Slam 

"Yes.  It's  not  easy  to  make  this — er — declaration,  you 
understand,  because — because " 

"Because  you're  poor,"  whispered  Diana. 

"That's  it.  I've  saved  a  couple  of  thou.,  and  I'm  mak- 
ing five  hundred  a  year.  And,  if  I  stick  to  my  last,  I 
may  be  offered,  some  day,  a  junior  partnership.  Now  then, 
between  ourselves,  I  loathe  the  business.  I've  plodded  on 
and  on,  like  a  slave ;  but  I  wanted  to  be  a  chemist." 

"A  chemist !    Good  gracious  !" 

"An  experimental  chemist.  For  years,  you  know,  on  the 
quiet  I've  been  giving  my  undivided  attention  to  hematite 


ores." 


"To  Emma — who?" 

"Hematite  ores :  anhydrous  iron  sesquioxide,  the  most 
valuable  of  all  the  iron  ores,  and  the  most  refractory.  Then, 
about  a  month  ago" — Diana  smiled :  she  had  met  Jock  for 
the  first  time  just  one  month  ago — "on  the  14th  of  May -" 

"The  15th,  Jock." 

"I  think  it  was  the  14th — no  matter!  On  or  about  that 
date  I  was  struck  all  of  a  heap,  as  you  might  say." 

"Certainly  I  should  not  use  such  a  vulgar  expression." 

"It  came  like  a  bolt  from  the  blue.  I'm  thirty,  Diana :  no 
chicken — eh  ?  And  suddenly  I  found  what  I'd  been  looking 
for  for  years."    • 

"Ye— es." 

"I  wasn't  certain  at  first  that  I  had  found  it." 

"That  is  the  Scotch  in  you." 

"Perhaps.  Anyway,  I  know  now.  And  that  brings  me 
to  the  point  where  I  started :  my  declaration,  on  which  de- 
pends my  whole  future.  Am  1  to  stake  everything  or  not? 
Shall  I  go  no  trumps — or  spades?" 

"No  trumps,  if — if " 

"I  know  what  you  would  say.  No  trumps,  if  I  am  rea- 
sonably sure  of  my  cards.    Diana — I  am  cocksure." 

265 


Some  Happenings 

''Oh!  you  are,  are  you?"  She  blushed  furiously,  but 
Jock  was  staring  at  the  pattern  of  the  carpet. 

'*Yes,"  he  answered.  ''Years  ago,  I  remember  attending 
a  lecture  given  by  Professor  Sandeman.  He  concluded  with 
these  words:  'The  man  who  will  discover  a  cheap  process 
for  reducing  hematite  ores  will  prove  a  benefactor  of  man- 
kind and  make  an  immense  fortune !'  Those  words  have 
buzzed  in  my  head  ever  since.  And  I  tell  you,  only  you, 
that  I'm  cocksure  I've  got  it." 

"Got  what?" 

"I've  discovered  this  process.  I  took  out  a  provisional 
patent  to-day." 

Diana  was  no  longer  red,  but  white.  So  this,  this  was 
what  had  kept  him  awake  at  night !  With  an  effort  she  ac- 
claimed the  wonderful  discovery:  "Oh,  Jock,  how  clever 
of  you !" 

"It  was  luck,  Diana.  Now  you  see  where  I  am.  I  be- 
lieve in  my  process  so  firmly  that  I'm  tempted  to  chuck 
Mincing  Lane  and  to  use  my  time  and  money — it  will  take 
both — to  make  the  necessary  models." 

"But  some  one  else  with  money  could  be  persuaded  to 
do  that?" 

"I've  no  sort  of  pull.  The  thing  is  on  paper.  I  don't 
know  a  soul  to  whom  I'd  dare  trust  my  drawings.  I  tell 
you  it's  no  trumps  or  spades ;  freedom,  and  all  that  makes 
life  worth  living — or  slavery." 

He  looked  at  her  ardently,  but  she  could  not  interpret  his 
thoughts.    Did  the  future,  the  golden  future,  include  her?" 

'*Jock,"  she  said  earnestly,  "don't  chuck  the  office — yet! 
Trust  me  with  your  drawings !" 

"You,  Diana?" 

"I  shall  ask  Sir  Titus  Pyndrem — he's  an  iron-master,  and 
a  great  friend  of  ours — to  look  them  over." 

"Pyndrem !  The  king-pin !  Diana,  this  is  an  inspiration 
266 


The  Grand  Slam 

of  yours.  Pyndrem!  What  a  head  you've  got!  Why,  if 
he  says  the  thing'll  go,  go  it  will,  like  a  toboggan  down  an 
ice-run.      Trust   my    drawings    to    you?      Rather!      Why, 

Diana " 

"I  believe  this  is  our  dance,  Miss  vSkibbereen  ?" 
They  looked  up:  Sir  Titus,  tall,  bland,  imposing,  was, 
standing  in  front  of  them,  smoothing  his  carefully  trained 
moustache.  Beneath  it,  a  keen  eye  might  have  marked  his 
lips,  cleanly  cut,  but  thin,  pressed  together  in  a  faintly  de- 
risive smile.  A  vertical  wrinkle  lay  between  his  handsome 
brows. 

Ill 

Exactly  what  Diana  said  to  Sir  Titus  must  be  conjec- 
tured, but  it  is  certain  she  said  too  much.  The  ironmaster 
was  a  man  of  intuitions,  an  interpreter  of  the  unspoken 
word,  a  reader  of  character:  too  shrewd  not  to  perceive 
that  the  passion  the  Irish  beauty  inspired  in  him  had  en- 
gendered in  her  nothing  more  ardent  than  admiration,  re- 
spect, and — shall  it  be  added  ? — fear :  the  fear  which  power 
always  inspires,  the  fear  strangely  compounded  of  attrac- 
tion and  repulsion,  the  fear  so  easily  transformed  into  fasci- 
nation. 

Sir  Titus  promised  to  look  over  Jock's  drawings  and  spec- 
ifications, but  his  manner  subtly  conveyed  to  Diana  the 
impression  that  valuable  time  would  be  wasted — a  matter  of 
no  consequence  where  she  was  concerned.  Never  had  she 
liked  him  so  well  as  when  he  said  suavely :  *T've  made  it  a 
rule  to  pass  this  sort  of  thing  on  to  my  subordinates,  but 
your  cousin's  drawings  shall  have  my  careful  consideration. 
I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to  report  favourably  on  them." 

A  large  roll  of  papers  and  a  long  letter  reached  him  next 
day.     He  glanced  at  them  at  once,  for  he  knew  that  he 

267 


Some  Happenings 

would  meet  Diana  at  Ranelagh  the  same  afternoon.  It  hap- 
pened that  other  matters,  very  important  matters,  were 
clamouring  for  attention ;  and  Jock's  calculations  and  draw- 
ings, when  spread  out,  covered  about  fifteen  square  yards ! 
When  he  met  Diana,  Sir  Titus  said  regretfully :  "I  wish  I 
had  good  news  for  you,  but  your  cousin's  process  is,  I  fear, 
impracticable." 

**Oh,  oh !  He  will  be  terribly  cut  up.  He  has  put  heart 
and  soul  into  it." 

"No  doubt.  It  is  very  sad.  I  am  quite  sure,  reading  be- 
tween the  Hnes  of  the  letter  he  wrote  to  me,  that  he  thinks 
of  nothing  else." 

Diana  blushed  and  bit  her  pretty  lip. 

Sir  Titus  continued :  'T  am  not  infallible.  I  shall  have 
pleasure  in  submitting  these  papers  to  an  expert." 

"Thank  you,  thank  you,"  said  Diana  absently.  "You  have 
been  very  kind,  Sir  Titus — very  kind  indeed.  But  surely 
your  opinion  is  final — I  mean  that  it  might  be  kinder  to 
tell  my  cousin  the  brutal  truth.  Then,  then,  you  know,  he 
might — er — turn  his  attention  to  something  else." 

Sir  Titus  smiled,  but  the  tiny  wrinkle  between  his'  eyes 
showed  itself  for  a  minute.  When  he  spoke  again,  his  fine 
brow  was  quite  smooth. 

"Will  you  trust  me,  my  dear  Miss  Skibbereen?  Believe 
me,  I  feel  for  your  cousin  very  deeply.  I  cannot  doubt  that 
he  has  been  wasting  his  time.  I  receive  about  twenty  tons 
of  drawings  a  year  from  poor  men  who  have  discovered 
nothing  more  or  less  than  mares'  nests." 

"I  shall  tell  Jock  that." 

"Tell  him  nothing !  Leave  the  matter  in  my  hands !  For 
his  sake — you  say  he  is  poor — no,  no :  I  must  be  frank  with 
you — for  your  sake  I'll  give  the  matter  a  second  thought. 
Not  a  word,  I  beg,  not  a  word !  I  am  delighted  to  serve 
you." 

268 


The  Grand  Slam 

Diana  smiled  graciously  and  allowed  him  to  press  her 
hand. 

Within  the  week  Sir  Titus  wrote  to  Jock,  offering  him 
five  hundred  pounds  for  his  "process."  He  knew  that  Jock 
would  tell  his  cousin  of  the  offer,  and  that  she  would  put 
the  construction  he  wished  on  it. 

Jock  did  tell  his  cousin.  The  poor  fellow — had  Sir  Titus 
foreseen  this  also? — was  furious. 

"He  offers  me  five  hundred — the  leech!  And  if  the 
thing's  worth  a  penny  it's  worth  half  a  million.  Five  hun- 
dred !    Great  Scott !" 

"You  do  Sir  Titus  a  grave  injustice,"  said  Diana  warmly. 
"He  has  behaved  with  extraordinary  dehcacy." 

"He's  putting  on  the  screw:  if  ever  I  get  a  turn  at 
him " 

"Sir  Titus  is  my  friend,"  said  Diana  coldly. 

Jock  went  away  very  sorrowful.  He  was  certain  that 
Diana  meant  to  marry  Sir  Titus,  and  the  hideous  thought 
oppressed  him  that  Sir  Titus  might  have  offered  the  cheque 
out  of  charity.  "What's  a  monkey  to  him?"  he  reflected. 
"He's  cages  full  of  'em,  confound  him!"  None  the  less, 
he  answered  Sir  Titus's  letter  by  asking  for  an  interview, 
which  was  granted. 

Sir  Titus  was  at  his  country  place,  Pyndrem  Park,  and 
thither  Jock  betook  himself  in  the  afternoon  of  the  next 
Saturday.  He  had  to  walk  from  the  station,  a  dusty  journey 
of  two  miles  and  a  half,  and  Sir  Titus  kept  him  waiting  in 
the  library  for  three-quarters  of  an  hour.  When  he  came 
in,  tall,  cool,  dignified,  Jock  read  pity  on  every  fine  of  his 
face. 

"Am  I  to  write  a  cheque?"  asked  the  ironmaster. 

"No,"  said  Jock.  "My  process  is  either  worthless  or  very 
yaluable.     Sir  Titus,  I  feel  from  the  bottom  of  my  soul  that 

269 


Some  Happenings 

I  have  dropped  on  to  something  which  will  turn  the  iron 
trade  upside  down." 

Sir  Titus  shrugged  his  shapely  shoulders.  Perhaps  he 
had  heard  the  words  before. 

"You  are  a  rich  man,"  said  Jock  desperately ;  "and  a  thou- 
sand more  or  less  is  nothing  to  you.  Let  me  offer  you  a 
half-interest  in  this  thing.  You  will  have  to  build  the 
models,  and  so  forth — finance  it,  in  short,  through  the  ex- 
perimental stage.  At  the  outside  this  ought  not  to  cost 
more  than  two  thousand.    What  do  you  say?" 

"With  infinite  regret,  my  dear  Ff rench,  I  must  say — No." 

"Why  did  you  offer  me  five  hundred,  then?" 

Again  Sir  Titus  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  had  reasons:  they  ought  to  be  sufficiently  obvious  to 
the  cousin  of  Miss  Skibbereen." 

"Give  me  my  papers,"  said  Jock,  "and  let  me  say  thank 
you  and  good-bye.  Miss  Skibbereen's  cousin  can  worry 
along  without  pity  or  charity." 

"Your  drawings?  Certainly.  They  shall  be  sent  to  your 
chambers,  when  I  get  them.  I  have — er — submitted  them 
to  an  expert.    Good-bye." 

Jock  returned  to  town  humble  as  Uriah  Heep;  and  his 
humility  kept  him  out  of  Chester  Square.  Six  miserable 
weeks  passed.  Then  he  received  his  drawings  without  a 
word  of  apology  for  keeping  them,  and  without  the  ex- 
pert's written  report,  which  possibly  Sir  Titus  had  withheld. 
Coincident  with  this,  Jock  read  in  his  paper  the  announce- 
ment of  an  engagement  between  the  Honourable  Diana 
Skibbereen  and  Sir  Titus  Pyndrem,  Bart. 

The  double  event  made  a  full-blooded  Irishman  of  him. 
He  looked  over  his  drawings,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  they 
had  hardly  been  touched.  That  was  odd,  because  experts  in 
such  matters  as  hematite  ores  have  not  the  cleanest  fingers 
in  the  world !  Just  then  he  conceived  the  happy  idea  of 
270 


The  Grand  Slam 

consulting  the  great  chemist,  Professor  Sandeman,  whose 
lecture,  years  before,  had  inspired  him.  He  asked  for  an 
appointment,  which  was  duly  made  and  kept. 

"I  can  give  you  five  minutes,"  said  the  illustrious  investi- 
gator. 

Jock  reminded  him  of  the  concluding  words  of  his  lecture. 

*'And  you've  got  it — hey?" 

"I  believe  so.    The  essential  principle  is  this,  sir "    He 

smoothed  out  a  drawing  and  began  to  talk.  The  Professor 
listened,  poring  over  the  drawings,  nodding  his  massive 
head,  growling  inarticulate  sounds.  Presently  he  com- 
manded silence.  Jock  watched  him  as  he  tore  the  heart  out 
of  the  elaborate  calculations.  Obviously  the  great  man  was 
interested,  excited.     Five,  ten,  fifteen  minutes  passed. 

"Bless  my  soul!  I  believe  you  have  got  it.  Now,  look 
here,  my  boy,  Pyndrem  ought  to  see  these," — he  tapped  the 
drawings. 

*'He  has  §een  them.    He  offers — five  hundred  pounds." 

"Five  hundred  pounds !  These  ironmasters  are  made  of 
— brass.  Five  hundred  pounds !''  He  scratched  his  chin, 
screwing  up  one  eye  in  comical  perplexity.  "My  boy,  FU 
be  frank  with  you.  I  haven't  a  penny.  Still,  I  know  the 
fellows  with  the  shekels.  But  you  don't  want  Tom  and 
Dick  poking  their  beaks  into  this — do  you  ?  And  your  pro- 
visional patent  will  expire  soon.  Why  did  Pyndrem  keep 
your  drawings  so  long?" 

"I  think  I  can  guess  why,"  said  Jock,  clenching  his  fist. 

The  Professor  nodded  absently,  and  continued,  "I  could 
sell  these  drawings  for  more  than  five  hundred,  but  you 
know  how  it  is — a  pig  in  a  poke — hey?  And  if  you  find  a 
financier  he'll  gobble  the  profits.  They  always  do,"  said 
the  great  man  ruefully.     "That's  why  F'm  a  pauper." 

"I  have  two  thousand  pounds,"  said  Jock  solemnly. 

"To  risk?" 

271 


Some  Happenings 

"Fm  risking  more  than  that."  Jock  explained  the  position 
in  Mincing  Lane. 

"Phew-w-w !"  exclaimed  the  Professor.  "  Ton  my  soul, 
I  can't  advise  you,  my  boy.  This  sort  of  thing  is  heart- 
breaking. The  best-laid  plans  of  inventors  gang  agley.  The 
sulphur  in  those  confounded  ores  might  play  havoc  with 
your  models,  and  then — what  then?  No,  no,  you  mustn't 
abandon  substance  for  shadow.  Sell  these  outright.  I'll 
take  it  upon  myself  to  advise  Pyndrem  to  offer  you  five 
thousand  for  them." 

'T'd  sooner  give  them  to  you,  sir." 

"Oh— ho !" 

Jock  blushed  to  the  roots  of  his  marmalade-coloured  hair, 
for  the  great  man  had — winked.  Certainly  his  eyes  were 
diabolically  keen:  they  could  see  to  the  bottom  of  vessels 
other  than  test-tubes  and  crucibles. 

"If  you'll  steer  me,  sir,  I'll  risk  my  two  thousand." 

"My  boy,  your  name  is  Ffrench,  so,  of  course,  you're 
Irish." 

"Half  Scotch,"  said  Jock. 

"The  Scotch  is  on  the  surface,"  said  the  other,  staring 
at  the  freckles.  "Well,  I  can  steer  you,  and  I  will  steer  you, 
because  I  like  you  and  admire  your  pluck.  Dine  with  me 
to-night  Good  gracious !  is  that  confounded  clock  striking 
four?    Right-about-face,  sir!    March!" 


IV 


Models,  whether  animate  or  inanimate,  take  time  in  the 
making.  Nearly  three  months  passed  before  Jock  and  the 
Professor  were  able  to  put  anticipation  to  the  proof.  Finally 
the  day  came,  the  wonderful  day,  the  day  of  days  when 
they  knew  that  time  and  labour  had  not  been  wasted,  that 
272 


The  Grand  Slam 

the  new  process  was  infinitely  better  than  the  old,  that  it 
must  be  adopted  by  every  ironmaster  in  the  wide  world. 

Meantime  patents  had  been  applied  for  in  the  United 
States  and  foreign  countries.  The  Professor  steered  his 
young  friend  through  the  snags  and  shoals  which  have 
wrecked  so  many  inventors  with  the  skill  and  patience  of  a 
Mississippi  pilot. 

Then  a  company  was  formed ;  and  Jock,  as  managing  di- 
rector, wrote  letters  to  every  ironmaster  in  the  United  King- 
dom, asking  each  to  attend  a  private  lecture.  One  man  only, 
Sir  Titus  Pyndrem,  received  no  invitation. 

All  the  big  men  came,  hard-featured,  keen-eyed,  massive 
fellows,  with  uneasiness  writ  plain  upon  their  shrewd  faces. 
Jock  recited  the  facts.  Outside,  in  a  shed,  were  the  models. 
When  he  had  finished  his  speech,  Jock  led  the  way  into  the 
sheds. 

"These,"  said  he,  "talk  more  convincingly  than  I  can." 

The  furnaces  were  red-hot ;  so  were  the  faces  of  the  iron- 
masters, as  they  stood  silent  and  dismayed,  their  eyes  bulg- 
ing out  of  their  heads  with  amazement.  Jock  smiled 
blandly. 

'Tt's  an  extraordinary  thing— isn't  it?— that  you,  gentle- 
men, never  discovered  this." 

Several  men,  who  had  paid  large  bills  for  new  machinery, 
wiped  their  foreheads.  These  asked  the  most  questions. 
When  they  returned  to  the  house,  Jock  offered  his  guests 
refreshments :  tea,  or  whisky,  if  they  preferred  it.  All  of 
them,  with  the  exception  of  a  total  abstainer  from  South 
Wales,  preferred  whisky.  The  total  abstainer  drank  five 
cups  of  tea ! 

A  group  of  four  men,  the  biggest  in  the  trade,  approached 
Jock.  "What  are  your  terms?"  they  asked.  The  others  in 
the  room  stopped  talking. 

"Our  terms,"  said  Jock,  "for  the  privilege  of  using  the 

273 


Some  Happenings 

Ffrench  process  are  ten  thousand  pounds  down,  and  a  roy- 
alty of  15  per  cent,  upon  the  net  profits." 

The  crowd  groaned. 

''Your  terms  are  outrageous,  sir,"  said  a  well-known  peer. 

Jock  smiled.  "Sir  Titus  Pyndrem,"  said  he,  "offered  five 
hundred  pounds  for  all  rights,  English  and  foreign,  in  my 
process.  Opinions  may  differ  upon  what  is  or  is  not — out- 
rageous. The  Board,  gentlemen,  is  ready  to  receive  your  ap- 
plications. I  may  say,  between  ourselves,  that  Messrs.  Slag, 
of  Pittsburg,  Ohio,  whose  representative  is  now  in  London, 
the  Carl  Hoffmeyers,  and  the  great  French  firm  of  Delo- 
belle,  have  already  accepted  these  terms  which  you,  my  lord, 
deem  so  outrageous." 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Ffrench." 

^'Au  revoir,  my  lord,"  said  Jock,  grinning. 


V 


The  iron  trade  soon  discovered  that  the  position  of  the 
new  company  was  impregnable.  Many  of  the  smaller  men 
consolidated  their  interests;  but  each  firm,  new  or  old,  was 
constrained  to  apply  for  permission  to  use  the  Ffrench 
process.  Amongst  these  applications  came  one  from  Sir 
Titus  Pyndrem.  Jock  laid  it  before  the  Board  (which  sat 
every  day),  and  said  a  few  words. 

"I  have  a  favour  to  ask  you,  gentlemen.  You  know  the 
facts,  so  I  need  not  repeat  them.  Sir  Titus  applies  for 
permission  to  use  our  process.  Well,  ten  thousand  pounds 
plus  the  royalties  on  the  biggest  output  in  the  kingdom  is  a 
large  sum  to  sacrifice ;  but  Sir  Titus  nearly  broke  my  heart, 
and  I  want  to  go  to  him,  and  I  want  to  say:  'Sir  Titus, 
your  application  is — refused.  Our  patent  will  run  for  four- 
teen years.  Then  we  hope  to  get  a  renewal  of  it,  and  when 
274 


The  Grand  Slam 

that  expires,  and  not  till  then,  yon  will  be  able  to  use  the 
John  Ffrench  process.'  " 

The  chairman  glanced  at  his  colleagues,  interpreting 
aright  the  expression  upon  their  faces.  Then  he  chuckled 
and  rubbed  his  hands. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  he,  "you  have  heard  what  Mr.  Ffrench 
says;  and,  speaking  personally,  I  am  of  opinion,  and  I  be- 
lieve you  are  of  opinion,  that  in  this  matter  our  managing 
director,  who  is  also  our  largest  shareholder,  ought  to  have 
a  free  hand.  This  is  irregular,  but  those  in  accord  with 
me  say  'aye.'  Ah !  I  thought  so.  The  Board  is  united,  Mr. 
Ffrench.  Pray  tell  Sir  Titus,  with  our  compliments,  that 
he  may  go  to — er — Jericho." 

Next  day  Jock  wired  to  Sir  Titus  that  he  wished  to  see 
him  at  any  convenient  time  and  place.  Sir  Titus  wired 
back:  "Come  to  Pyndrem  by  11.40  to-morrow.  Will  send 
carriage  to  station." 

Jock  bought  a  first-class  ticket  and  the  Marnhig  Post. 
But  he  did  not  read  his  paper.  Nor  did  he  look  out  of  the 
window  at  the  pleasant  fields  and  woods  of  Surrey.  Instead, 
he  leaned  back  and  closed  his  eyes,  reviewing  the  events  of 
the  past  year,  counting  his  gains  and  losses.  He  had  lost 
Diana.  Ah,  well,  Fortune  came  to  few  men  with  both  hands 
full.  He  must  live  his  life — and  it  promised  to  be  a  full 
life — without  her.  Hang  it  all  I  What  a  muff  he  was,  to  be 
sure !  His  eyes  were  wet.  Truly,  she  had  bewitched  him — 
the  siren !  Why  had  they  met — to  be  parted  by  inexorable 
destiny?  Why?  The  answer  was  obvious.  To  Diana  he 
owed  everything.  She  had  fired  him  to  supreme  endeavour ; 
she  had  quickened  the  clay.  He  could  not  doubt  that. 
Alone,  he  would  have  plodded  on  in  the  same  old  path: 
dreary  work  from  ten  to  four,  golf,  if  the  season  permit- 
ted, bridge  at  the  club — ad  infinitum! 

Jock  picked  up  his  paper.    Retrospection,  he  decided,  was 

275 


Some  Happenings 

fatuous.  The  present  and  the  future  alone  should  engross 
his  attention.  The  world  had  become  his  oyster — and  what 
was  the  world  doing? 

Suddenly  he  ejaculated,  "By  Jove !" 

He  had  just  read  that  Sir  Titus  Pyndrem  was  entertain- 
ing a  number  of  friends  at  Pyndrem  Park,  amongst  them 
Lord  and  Lady  Skibbereen  and  Miss  Skibbereen. 

*T  ought  to  have  foreseen  this,"  said  Jock  ruefully. 

He  had  half  a  mind  to  return  to  town  without  seeing  Sir 
Titus;  but  the  other  half,  the  Scotch  half,  protested  obsti- 
nately. After  all,  it  was  extremely  unlikely  that  Diana  and 
he  would  meet.  He  came  to  see  Sir  Titus.  He  would  see 
Sir  Titus  alone  in  his  library.  All  in  all  he  need  not  spend 
more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  within  the  palings  of  Pyn- 
drem Park. 

At  the  station  a  victoria,  drawn  by  a  splendid  pair  of 
blood  bays,  was  awaiting  him. 

"I  had  to  foot  it  last  time,"  said  Jock,  with  a  grin,  as 
he  drew  a  sealskin  rug  over  his  knees. 

As  he  entered  the  park  he  reflected  that  this  lovely  place 
would  be  Diana's  future  home.  She  would  pass  in  and  out 
of  the  magnificent  iron  gates;  she  would  use,  daily  per- 
haps, this  finely  appointed  carriage.  Thinking  of  these 
things,  Jock  ground  his  teeth. 

At  the  house  he  was  received  by  the  butler  and  a  couple 
of  tall  footmen.  The  butler  ushered  him  into  the  library, 
where  Sir  Titus  was  standing,  ready  to  welcome  an  hon- 
oured guest. 

*Tfrench,  my  dear  fellow,  I'm  delighted  to  see  you." 

Sir  Titus  grasped  Jock's  hand  and  held  it  firmly,  as  if 
loath  to  let  it  go.  Words  poured  from  his  mouth.  Jock 
would  stop  to  luncheon — of  course?  If  he  had  no  better 
engagement,  would  he  join  the  house-party?  Let  him  wire 
for  his  servant  and  his  things — and  so  forth. 
276 


The  Grand  Slam 

Jock  listened,  unable  to  stem  this  torrent  of  courtesy. 

*'I  should  like  to  show  you  what  I've  done  here/'  Sir  Titus 
continued :  "the  model  farm,  my  hackneys,  the  herd  of 
Jerseys.  You'll  be  going  in  for  these  tu'penny-ha'penny 
distractions  yourself.    Ah — Diana !" 

Diana  had  come  in,  pausing  irresolutely  upon  the 
threshold  when  she  saw  Jock.  Then  she  advanced,  faintly 
smiling,  holding  out  her  slim  hand. 

*T'm  trying  to  persuade  your  cousin — he  is  your  cousin, 
isn't  he? — to  spend  a  few  days  with  us." 

"That  would  be — delightful,"  said  Diana,  glancing  inter- 
rogatively at  Jock. 

*T  m-m-must  return  t-t-to  t-t-town  at  once,"  he  stam- 
mered. 

Sir  Titus  raised  his  handsome  brows.  "My  dear  Ffrench, 
my  dear  fellow,  that  is  simply  impossible.  Business  of 
such  magnitude  can't  be  settled  in  a  minute — or  an  hour." 

*T  think  it  c-c-can,"  said  Jock. 

Sir  Titus  divined  instantly  that  Jock  had  travelled  down 
into  Surrey  to  tell  him  to  his  face  that  his  application  was 
refused — a  little  bit  of  revenge  after  his  (Sir  Titus's)  own 
heart.  He  divined  also  that  Jock  would  not  find  it  easy  to 
deliver  himself  in  Diana's  presence.  When  Jock  had  wired 
asking  for  an  interview.  Sir  Titus  had  jumped  to  the  con- 
clusion that  Jock  had  terms  of  his  own  to  propose.  Setting 
an  extravagant  value  on  money,  it  had  not  occurred  to  him 
that  Jock  and  his  Board  would  dare  to  defy  the  man  who 
owned  more  hematite  ores  than  any  three  others  in  the 
trade.  He  made  up  his  mind  what  to  do  and  say  as  Diana 
was  turning  to  leave  the  room. 

"Don't  go,  Diana,"  he  said  suavely.  "The  business  which 
has  brought  your  cousin  here  will  interest  you." 

"Oh!"  said  Diana. 

"It  is  connected  with  that  invention  of  his,  which  you,  if 

277 


Some  Happenings 

I  remember  rightly,  introduced  to  my  notice  last  June,  I 
thought  there  was  nothing  in  it;  but  it  seems  I  was  mis- 
taken. Well,"  he  laughed  genially,  "all  of  us  make  mistakes 
— sometimes/' 

"Sometimes,"  said  Diana,  looking  at  Jock. 

"Sometimes,"  repeated  Jock,  trying  to  interpret  the  ex- 
pression upon  the  girl's  face. 

Sir  Titus,  too  occupied  with  his  own  thoughts  to  notice 
what  was  passing  in  the  minds  of  others,  continued  blandly : 
"I  made  a  mistake  which  will  cost  me  dear.  The  process, 
no  doubt  vastly  improved  since  I  saw  it " 

^'Just  the  same,"  said  Jock  sharply. 

"Has  proved  of — er — superlative  value.  We — all  of  us 
in  the  trade — must  adopt  it.  And  your  cousin,  my  dear, 
has  come  down  here  to — er — turn  the  screw.  I  don't  blame 
him.  Impose  your  penalty,  my  dear  Ffrench — and  then 
let  us  drink  your  health  in  some  Marcobrunner,  which  I 
think  you  will  admit  is  incomparable." 

Jock  smiled  faintly.  Certainly  Sir  Titus  had  a  "way"  with 
him.  He  had  wriggled  out  of  a  very  tight  place.  Jock  told 
himself  that  Diana  had  chosen  a  man  whose  body  and 
brains  were  immeasurably  superior  to  his  own.  He  said 
heavily :  "It's  all  right,  Sir  Titus.  I  shan't  turn  the  screw. 
Your  application  is  accepted — on  the  same  terms  as  the 
others.    And  now,  I  m-must  get  back  to  t-t-town." 

"If  you  must,  my  dear  fellow "     Sir  Titus  held  out 

his  hand. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  said  Diana.  She  turned  to  Jock,  hold- 
ing his  eyes.  "I  am  puzzled.  I — I  feel  that  in  some  way  I 
have  forced  your  hand.  You — you  did  not  come  down 
here  to  tell  Sir  Titus  something  which  could  have  been 
told  in  half  a  dozen  words  on  a  postcard  ?  You" — her  voice 
became  firmer,  clearer,  as  she  began  to  grasp  what  had 
eluded  her — "you  intended  to  say  something  entirely  dif- 
278 


The  Grand  Slam 

ferent.  I  believe — yes,  I  know  that  you  came  here  to  play 
some  card  which  you  have  not  played.     Why?" 

The  w^ord,  slightly  aspirated,  seemed  to  whistle  through 
the  silence  that  followed. 

"'Why?"  she  repeated  impatiently.  *'Will  you  tell  me — 
or  shall  I  guess?" 

Jock  was  stricken  dumb  with  confusion.  Flight  suggested 
itself  as  the  one  thing  possible.  Fortunately,  Diana  stood 
between  himself  and  the  door. 

''It  seems  I  must  guess,"  said  Diana,  with  a  hard  laugh. 

"My  dearest,"  interposed  Sir  Titus,  in  his  admirable  man- 
ner, ''is  it — er — discreet  to  interfere  in  a  business  matter 
which " 

"You  said  yourself  a  moment  ago  concerned  me.  I  was 
so  interested  in  this  very  business  that  I  took  upon  myself 
to  beg  you  to  give  it  attention.  You  told  me  the  next  day 
there  was  nothing  in  it." 

"The  next  day  ?"  repeated  Jock ;  "and  I  got  my  drawings 
back  at  the  end  of  the  Cowes  week." 

"At  the  end  of  the  Cowes  week?"  Diana's  eyes  were 
flashing  interrogation. 

Sir  Titus  betrayed  signs  of  temper.  "I  must  protest," 
he  said.    "This  cross-examination  in  my  own  house " 

"Here  or  elsewhere,"  interrupted  Diana,  "Fm  going  to 
the  bottom  of  this." 

"You  dare  to  insinuate " 

"I  dare  to  demand  the  truth  from  the  man  I've  promised 
to  marry." 

"Go  on,"  said  Sir  Titus,  with  a  gesture  indicating  resig- 
nation :  the  inevitable  surrender  of  the  courteous  male  to 
the  indiscreet  female. 

"You  kept  these  drawings  for  six  weeks.  Ah — I  have 
it!  You  came  down  here" — she  looked  at  Jock — "to  enjoy 
the  pleasure  of  telling  the  man  who  had  kept  you  frizzling 

279 


Some  Happenings 

on  a  gridiron  of  suspense  for  forty  days  and  nights  that  his 
application  was — refused."  She  brought  out  the  last  word 
triumphantly.  "Deny  it,  if  you  can.  Now,  Titus,  please 
tell  me  why  you  kept  those  drawings  so  long." 

"I — er — sent  them  to  an  expert." 

''An  expert !  He  can't  know  his  business.  Who  is  he — 
your  expert?" 

Sir  Titus  hesitated,  but  only  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
said  coldly,  'T  sent  them  to — er — Professor  Sanderaan." 

"Sandeman !"  repeated  Jock,  stupefied.  "Why,  Sandeman 
is  my  man.  I  showed  them  to  him  after  you  had  returned 
them  to  me.    He  recognised  their  merit  at  once.    Why " 

Sir  Titus  held  up  his  hand. 

"I  surrender,"  said  he.  *T  admit  that  I  am  beaten.  All 
is  fair  in  love  and  war.  Your  drawings  were  not  sent  to 
anybody.  I  glanced  at  them  myself,  and  failed  to  see  the 
value  of  them.     The  rest — you  can  guess." 

He  bowed  politely  and  left  the  room.  An  awkward 
silence  followed,  broken  by  Diana. 

"So  you  went  no  trumps  after  all  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Jock;  "but  the  game  is  not  over  yet."  He 
drew  nearer,  staring  hard  into  her  eyes,  reading  the  writing 
on  her  cheeks. 

''The  tricks  are  all  yours,  Jock." 

"All  mine?"  He  bent  down  till  his  lips  touched  her  ear. 
Then  he  murmured  a  question  to  which  she  nodded  assent, 
being  unable  to  speak. 

"What  will  you  tell  your  mother?"  said  Jock.  He  had 
actually  forgotten  that  he  was  rich,  eligible. 

"I  shall  tell  her,"  said  Diana,  half  crying,  half  laughing, 
"that  I  made  a  mistake,  and  that  Sir  Titus  made  a  mis- 
take, and  that  you  have  made — the  Grand  Slam." 


280 


XVII 


BINGO  S  FLUTTER 


BINGHAM  MASTERMAN,  known  to  his  friends  as 
Bingo,  was  the  only  son  of  a  Liverpool  merchant  who 
had  accumulated  a  vast  fortune  by  the  exercise  of  patience, 
thrift,  caution,  and  a  habit  of  mind  constraining  him  to 
buy  when  others  wished  to  sell,  and  to  sell  when  his  neigh- 
bours were  unduly  anxious  to  buy.  Not  ungenerous  to  him- 
self or  to  his  family,  it  may  be  said  of  him — as  Junius 
said  of  the  Duke  of  Bedford — that  his  charity  ended  where 
it  began — at  home. 

Bingoes  father  married  late  in  life  the  daughter  of  an 
Irish  peer.  This  nobleman  died  in  '85,  but  his  memory  was 
kept  green  by  old  Alasterman.  Before  Bingo  was  breeched 
he  understood  that  his  maternal  grandfather  had  been  a 
miserable  sinner  and  a  scandalous  spendthrift. 

Bingo  was  sent  to  Eton  and  Christ  Church,  where  he 
made  many  friends,  being  an  amiable  fellow,  and  recog- 
nised as  the  son  of  a  millionaire.  He  did  not  shine  either 
in  the  schools  or  in  the  playing-fields,  but  he  rode,  not  to, 
but  after  (a  long  way  after)  hounds,  and  bought  sporting 
prints.  Knowing  men  said  that  Bingo  was  likely  to  own 
a  Derby  winner  some  day.  He  had  looked  at  a  set  of 
plans  of  model  racing-stables,  and  it  was  generally  under- 
stood that  when  it  pleased  Providence  to  remove  his  father, 

281 


Some  Happenings 

something  would  happen.  "The  governor,"  Bingo  would 
say,  "is  one  of  the  best,  but  he  had  to  fork  out  thirty  thou, 
to  pay  the  racing  debts  of  my  grandfather,  Punchestown. 
Bless  you,  that  little  affair  nearly  killed  both  of  'em.  Poor 
old  Punch  worried  himself  to  death  thinking  that  my 
father  would  not  pay  up,  and  my  father  barely  escaped  a 
fit  knowing  that  he  must.  Bar  chaff,  i'f  I  had  a  little  flutter 
now,  he  would  cut  me  off  with  a  shilling." 

When,  in  the  fullness  of  time,  Masterman  pere  was  laid 
in  the  marble  mausoleum  to  which  his  wife  had  preceded 
him.  Bingo  found  himself  sole  possessor  of  more  than 
i 1, 000,000  sterling. 

''Bingo,  me  boy,  ye'll  have  your  flutter  now,"  said  an 
Irish  second  cousin ;  but  Bingo  shook  his  head  austerely, 
and  said,  very  properly,  that  for  a  season  his  sire's  prejudice 
against  what  he  (Bingo)  admitted  to  be  one  of  the  finest  of 
British  institutions  must  be  respected. 

''Me  cousin  is  not  buying — yet,"  reported  the  Irishman, 
"and  divil  a  bet  will  he  make,  good  son  that  he  is,  till  he 
wears  pink  again !  Me  only  fear  is  that  some  match- 
making mamma  will  break  his  spirit,  before  his  first  race." 

Many  of  Bingo's  friends  shared  this  son  of  Erin's  appre- 
hensions :  sensible  that  Bingo  was  susceptible  to  female 
beauty,  and — being  of  plastic  clay — might  be  moulded  by 
the  wrong  sort  of  wife  into  something  quite  unthinkable 
from  a  racing  point  of  view.  But,  if  he  married  the  right 
sort!  The  conjunction,  it  will  be  admitted,  introduced 
possibilities. 

Amongst  the  right  sort  (in  a  good  sportsman's  eyes) 
Lady  Margie  Yester  shone  pre-eminent.  Her  mother, 
old  Lady  Stockbridge,  knew  Bingo,  and  approved  his  per- 
sonalty, if  not  his  personality.  *T  believe,"  she  told  her 
sister,  "that  his  great-grandfather  was  transported  for 
sheep-stealing,  but  I  have  always  made  a  point  of  denying 
282 


Bingo's  Flutter 

the  story,  because  the  dear  man  himself  says  that  he  never 
had  a  great-grandfather  on  his  father's  side.  He  can  give 
Margie  a  tiara,  and  a  tiara  Margie  must  have.  The  child 
understands  that  perfectly.  Yes ;  his  means,  my  dear,  are 
very  large." 

"As  large  as  his  ends,"  suggested  the  sister,  whose  mar- 
ried daughters  wore  no  tiaras.  She  was  referring  to  Bingo's 
extremities — hands  and  feet  of  generous  proportions. 

"Quite  so,"  said  Lady  Stockbridge,  blandly.  "Is  it  true, 
dear,  that  your  darling  Ethel  is  engaged  to  a  minor  canon  ?" 

"An  infamous  lie!"  affirmed  the  other  lady  of  quality. 
"Why,  a  bishop,  nowadays,  is  hardly  eligible!" 

Bingo  dined  quietly  (en  famille,  my  dear  Mr.  Master- 
man)  at  Stockbridge  House;  and  Lord  Stockbridge  pro- 
posed him  at  Black's  and  found  a  duke  as  seconder.  Margie 
Yester  told  young  Bicester  that  he  was  not  to  speak  to  her 
unless  it  was  certain  that  no  one  was  looking;  and  Bingo 
told  his  pals  that  the  world  was  a  better  place  than  he  had 
supposed. 

"I  believe  your  governor  only  allowed  you  seven  hun- 
dred a  year,"  said  Jack  Ainsworth. 

"And  I  never  exceeded  my  allowance,"  replied  Bingo 
proudly.  "By  Jove,  Jack,  what  a  splendid  woman  Margie 
Yester  is!    You  know  her,  of  course!" 

"She  does  not  know  me." 

"I'll  introduce  you  any  day,"  said  the  enthusiastic  Bingo ; 
but  Ainsworth  drily  declined  the  honour. 

Bingo  did  not  go  to  Ascot,  but  he  promised  to  join  Lady 
Stockbridge's  party  for  the  July  meeting  at  Newmarket. 
Margie  talked  of  Sandown  and  Goodwood  and  Doncaster, 
and  said  that  she  counted  upon  Bingo  as  a  companion  at 
the  big  autumn  handicaps. 

"You  mean  to  play  the  game  ?"  she  asked  sweetly. 

"Not — alone,"  said  Bingo. 

283 


Some  Happenings 

Margie  smiled  behind  her  fan.  Bingo  was  warming  up! 
Young  Bicester  had  warned  her  that  he  was  rather  a 
''cautious  cove";  and  her  brother,  Stockbridge,  had  said 
that  Bingo  would  have  to  be  shaken  up  at  his  fences — a  bit 
of  a  slug! 

''Bless  your  innocent  heart,"  said  Margie,  "you  won't  be 
left  alone,  Bingo.     Don't  fret !" 

"You — and  y — y — your  people,"  added  the  careful  young 
man,  "are  going  to  stand  by  me?" 

"To  the  death,"  said  Margie  gaily.  "AH  the  same,  don't, 
lend  money  to  Stockie :  that's  my  tip." 

"He  hasn't  asked  for  any,"  said  Bingo,  grinning. 

"Hasn't  he?"  said  Margie.  "Well,  really,"  her  voice 
softened  delightfully,  "that  is  very  considerate  of  Stocky. 
And  mamma — has — has  she  invited  you  to  invest  a  few 
hundreds  in  the  Kaffir  market?  She  hasn't?  Not  yet.  If 
she  does — don't !" 

"I  won't/'  said  Bingo  firmly.  "I  say.  Lady  Margaret — I 
say,  Margie,  you've  been  awfully  decent  to  me." 

"I  have/'  said  Margie,  truthfully,  with  a  faint  tinge  of 
colour  in  her  cheeks.  "I  like  you.  Bingo.  I  feel  like 
Pharaoh's  daughter  when  I  look  at  you." 

Poor  Bingo  blushed.  Divinity  not  being  his  strong  point, 
he  confounded  Pharaoh's  daughter  with  Potiphar's  wife. 

"You  are,  so  to  speak,  still  in  the  bulrushes,"  continued 
the  young  lady.    "May  I  adopt  you.  Bingo  dear?" 

"You  can  do  what  you  like  with  me,"  said  the  enchanted 
Bingo.  "I  am  yours,  and  all  I  have  is  yours.  Can  I  say 
more?" 

"You  might  perhaps  say  it  differently,"  replied  Margie, 
thinking  of  Bicester;  "but  I  shan't  pretend  to  misunder- 
stand you,  my  honest  old  Bingo,  because,  whatever  those 
cats,  my  aunts,  may  say  or  think,  I  am — straight.  If  we 
enter  into  partnership,  I — I  am  older  than  you.  Bingo — / 
284 


Bingo's  Flutter 

must  be  head  partner — at  any  rate  at  first.  You,  I  take  it, 
want  to  do  what  I  want  to  do."  She  held  up  a  slender  hand 
and  began  to  count  upon  the  tips  of  her  fingers.  "I  want  to 
race,  I  want  to  hunt,  I  want  to  yacht.  I  want  one  of  the 
best  chefs  in  London,  a  house  in  Carlton  House  Terrace, 
and  two  months'  holiday — not  a  day  less." 

''And  where  shall  we  spend  the  holiday?"  said  the  en- 
raptured Bingo. 

'*We?  My  dear  Bingo,  the  object  of  the  holiday  will  be 
singular  so  far  as  we  are  concerned.  Don't  look  so  un- 
happy! You  will  have  your  little  lark  and  I  shall  have 
mine.    And  now,  if  you  like,  you  may  kiss  me." 

Margie  wrote  that  night  to  young  Bicester : — 

''L'homme  propose,  and,  when  he  has  a  million,  what 
daughter  of  Eve  will  say  him  nay?  Stocky  gave  Bingo  a 
bottle  of  '84,  and  it  is  wonderful  stuff!  I  am  to  race  and 
hunt  and  yacht  and  to  have  two  months'  holiday.  Nous 
verrons.  I  trust  you  will  see  the  propriety  of  marrying  the 
jam-maker's  daughter.  She  is  a  nice  little  thing,  and  nearly 
as  innocent  as  my  dearest  Bingo.  What  a  partie  carree  we 
shall  make!  Apropos — why  not  make  a  double  event  of 
it?  Then  we  can  meet.  I'm  sure  Bingo  will  hit  it  off  with 
your — what  is  her  name? — something  vernal — oh  yes — 
your  Violet.  It  is  a  pity  that  the  other  name  is  Potts,  but 
she  will  need  the  less  persuading  to  change  it.  .  .  ." 


II 

Two  days  later  Margie  received  a  wire  from  young 
Bicester:  ''Congratulations  given  and  received.  V.  is 
mine.     Include  us,  if  possible,  in  Newmarket  houseparty." 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  Lady  Stockbridge's  house- 
party  for  the  July  meeting  included  Bingo  and  Miss  Potts. 

285 


Some  Happenings 

More,  by  what  seemed  at  the  time  a  coincidence,  these  two 
persons  travelled  down  to  Newmarket  by  the  same  train, 
and  were  alone  together  for  two  hours  in  a  first-class  car- 
riage. Young  Bicester  was  in  attendance  at  St.  Pancras, 
and  'twas  he  who  introduced  his  fiancee  to  Bingo  and 
begged  that  gentleman  to  take  care  of  her  during  the 
journey.  Bicester  said  that  business  engagements  would 
keep  him  in  town  that  night,  but  he  hoped  to  join  the  party 
on  the  heath  next  day  about  luncheon  time. 

"You  are  going  to  marry  Lady  Margaret?"  said  Miss 
Potts,  very  shyly,  as  the  train  rolled  out  of  the  great  station. 

"And  you  are  engaged  to  Lord  Bicester?" 

"Ye— es." 

For  a  time  conversation  languished.  In  a  second-class 
compartment  Bingo's  man  and  Miss  Potts*  maid  were 
already  upon  confidential  terms ;  but  between  the  master  and 
mistress  hung  an  impediment  of  speech  which  both  regarded 
as  a  dreadful  obstacle.  Finally  Bingo  burst  into  praise  of 
young  Bicester,  whom  he  had  known  and  admired  at  Eton 
and  Oxford.  "What  a  chap  he  was,  to  be  sure !  So  good- 
looking,  so  cheery,  such  a  sportsman,  and  so  forth,"  until 
Miss  Potts  was  covered  with  confusion. 

"Lady  Margaret  is  one  of  the  loveliest  women  in  Eng- 
land," murmured  Miss  Potts,  offering  her  Roland  demurely. 

"Beautiful  and — straight,"  said  Bingo. 

"She  has  a  splendid  figure,"  admitted  Miss  Potts. 

"I  meant  beautiful  and  good,"  explained  Bingo.  "So 
many  women  one  meets  in  society  are  beautiful  but  not — 
er — good." 

"I  don't  like  to  think  that  a  beautiful  face"  (Miss  Potts 
blushed,  thinking  of  her  George)   "may  mask  a  false  and 

evil  soul." 

"It  has  been  proved,"  said  Bingo,  with  the  air  of  a  New- 
ton revealing  the  law  of  gravitation. 
2d6 


Bingo's  Flutter 

"Lord  Bicester  and  Lady  Margaret  are  friends,  I  think," 
observed  Violet,  after  another  embarrassing  pause. 

"And  that,"  said  Bingo  briskly,  "is  a  reason  why  we 
should  be  friends  too.  You  know,  I  felt  quite  nervous  at 
having  to  travel  with  you,  but  it  has  worn  off.  I  no  longer 
feel  shy — do  you?" 

"Not  quite  so  shy,  Mr.  Masterman." 

"Shyness  is — is  a  beastly  bore,  but — when  I  get  over 
mine  I'm  quite,  you  know — quite " 

"Sportive,"  suggested  Miss  Potts,  playing  up  to  the  gay 
and  genial  Bingo. 

"I  was  going  to  say — bold,  Miss  Potts.  Not  brazen, 
like  some  men,  but  bold.  When  I  am  in  my  bold  mood 
I  f — f — f — feel  like  Alexander.  All  that  I  desire  seems 
within  my  grasp " 

Miss  Potts  glanced  furtively  at  the  button  above  the  win- 
dow.   Bingo  was  extending  his  arms  as  if 

"Mr.  Masterman,"  she  said  nervously,  "would  you  mind 
opening  the  other  window?    It  is  sultry — isn't  it?" 

"Sultry?"  echoed  Bingo,  with  a  laugh.  "Well,  when 
you  think  of  some  of  the  people  in  this  train  who  are  going 
down  to  Newmarket,  I  am  surprised  that  the  weather  isn't 
— er — warmer.    Miss  Potts,  I  feel  that  you  are  my  friend ! 

I  can  say  things  to  you  that  I Good  gracious !  for 

heaven's  sake  don't  touch  that  button ! — You  would  stop 
the  train  and  also  this  delightful  talk.  Let  me  see ;  I  was 
about  to  observe  that  I  wish  we  could  have  racing,  which 
is  a  great  national  sport,  without  racing  people.  I  do  not 
like  racing  people.  Their  ways  are  not  my  ways,  Miss 
Potts — nor  your  ways,  I  feel  assured." 

"I  don't  understand  a  word  they  say,"  the  young  lady 
admitted.  She  smiled  happily,  sensible  that  she  had  escaped 
a  dreadful  blunder.  Her  companion  was  really  very  nice, 
very  nice  indeed.     He  had  nice  ideas.     She  wished  that 

287 


Some  Happenings 

George  were  here  to  listen  to  them:  George,  who  said  that 
he  had  promised  his  mother  not  to  read  a  Hne  of  Shake- 
speare till  he  had  mastered  the  Racing  Calendar. 

Next  day  Bingo  rode  on  to  the  heath.  It  was  piping 
hot,  and  the  shade-trees  bordering  the  inclosure  wooed 
our  hero  seductively;  but  his  Margie,  like  Gilpin's  wife, 
although  on  pleasure  bent,  was  fully  alive  to  business 
opportunities.  Not  for  Bingo  were  cool  shadows  and  the 
tinkle  of  ice  in  long  tumblers.  No,  no !  He  must  trot  to 
and  from  that  Pandemonium  on  the  other  side  of  the 
course,  the  betting-ring;  then  he  must  jump  on  to  his  hack 
and  gallop  down  to  see  the  start,  returning,  as  a  true  lover 
should,  in  melting  mood;  and  then  there  were  messages 
to  trainers  and  jockeys,  and  the  inevitable  stroll  up  and 
down  the  paddock  before  and  after  each  race.  Still  he 
felt  that  he  was  "in  it,''  whereas  poor  little  Miss  Potts  sat 
disconsolate  beside  Lady  Stockbridge,  who  talked  pleasantly 
to  everybody  except  her  guest.  George  IBicester  gave  her 
luncheon  and  a  smile ;  but  he  too,  like  Bingo's  Margie,  was 
in  the  embrace  of  opportunity. 

*lt's  my  day,"  said  young  Bicester,  when  Margie  and  he 
met  for  a  moment  under  the  trees. 

"And  mine,"  said  Margie,  radiantly. 

"  'Pon  my  soul,  Margie,  if " 

"Don't,  George.     Ifs  and  ands " 

"Remind  me  of  Potts,"  said  the  young  fellow  gloomily. 
"How  about  this  selling  race,  Margie?  I  saw  you  talking 
to  old  Kempton.  What's  his  tip  ?  Phe-e-e-w  !  Pyramus ! 
Is  that  really  sound?  Eh — you  have  backed  the  colt  for  a 
win  and  a  place?    Then  I  shall  get  on  at  once." 

"George!"  she  called  him  back.     A  slight  blush  encar- 
mined  her  cheeks;  her  eyes  were  suffused  with  soft  light. 
"George — dear,  put  on  another  pony  for  me.     You  and  I 
can't  go  wrong  to-day — can  we  ?" 
288 


Bingo's  Flutter 

Young  Bicester  nodded  and  smiled  grimly. 

'There  is  to-morrow,"  he  said  significantly.  "A  pony 
on  Pyramus,  then.    All  right." 

Bingo  came  up,  and  the  trio  watched  Pyramus  win  his 
race.  Bingo  had  not  made  a  single  bet,  because,  as  he  said, 
he  was  in  mourning;  but  he  rejoiced  at  Margie's  success. 
Pyramus  was  a  wonderful  colt,  a  rare  shaped  'un,  a  galloper 
and  a  stayer — and  no  mistake! 

''Buy  him,"  said  Margie.  "He  is  to  be  sold  with  all  his 
engagements  this  afternoon.  Buy  him,  Bingo !  You  can't 
start  your  stud  with  a  better." 

"They'll  all  want  him  now,"  said  Bingo  cautiously.  "The 
price  will  be  stiff,  Margie.  And  my  poor  dear  father,  you 
know " 

She  coaxed  in  vain :  Bingo  was  not  to  be  budged  from 
the  unassailable  position  of  chief  mourner  for  one  who 
held  racing  to  be  an  abomination.  After  Doncaster,  when 
a  decent  twelve  months  had  elapsed,  Margie  and  he  would 
get  together  such  a  stud  as  was  never  seen  on  or  off  New- 
market Heath;  meantime — patience! 

Later,  finding  himself  alone,  for  his  Margie  and  young 
Bicester  had  mysteriously  disappeared,  Bingo  thought  he 
would  see  Pyramus  sold.  He  had  never  attended  a  sale  in 
his  life,  and  it  might  be  well  to  see  how  the  thing  was 
done.  He  sauntered  up  to  Tattersall's  ring,  smoking  a 
cigarette;  and  the  men  outside,  knowing  him  by  sight, 
made  way  for  him.  This  pleased  Bingo  vastly  well,  for  in 
his  sire's  Hfetime  he  had  not  quite  realised  his  own  im- 
portance. Glancing  round,  he  saw  many  faces  familiar  to 
the  racing  world.  Hard  and  shrewd  faces  these  !  Cut-and- 
thrust  fellows.  Ah  i  there  was  young  Bicester,  and  Margie 
beside  him.  Who  was  this?  Why,  one  of  the  stewards 
of  the  Jockey  Club,  to  be  sure,  and  nodding  in  the  most 

289 


Some  Happenings 

encouraging  manner  to  him,   Bingo.     Others  nodded  too. 
Bingo  returned  these  nods,  keeping  one  eye  on  Pyramus. 

"Seven  hundred  guineas,  I'm  bid.  Any  advance  on  that  ? 
And  fifty?  Thank  you,  my  lord.  And  seventy-five? 
Really,  gentlemen,  this  magnificent  colt  is  dirt  cheap  at  a 
thousand " 

Bingo  looked  round  the  ring.  The  voice  of  the  auctioneer 
was  very  familiar.  Where  had  he  heard  those  bland  tones 
before?  By  Jove!  In  his  dame's  house  at  Eton.  He 
caught  the  eye  of  the  auctioneer  and  recognised  an  old 
fag-master.  Then  he  nodded  cheerily,  and  the  other 
nodded  back. 

''Eight  hundred  guineas.  Sold — for  eight  hundred 
guineas." 

"A  damn  fine  colt!"  said  Bingo  loudly. 

"You  evidently  think  so,"  said  a  man  at  his  side;  and 
while  Bingo  was  wondering  what  he  meant,  young  Bicester 
and  Margie  came  up. 

"Oh,  Bingo!"  cried  Margie:  "you  are  a  dear!" 

"Eh— what?" 

"It  was  meant  as  a  surprise  for  me,  wasn't  it?'* 

Bingo  stared  apprehensively  at  his  Margie. 

Young  Bicester  said  solemnly :  "You  paid  a  stiffish  price, 
Bingo,  but  the  colt,  if  he  wins  to-morrow,  will  be  worth 
double  the  money.    By  Gad,  you  behaved  like  a  veteran." 

"What  tommy-rot  are  you  talking?"  said  Bingo  uneasily. 

Young  Bicester  began  to  laugh.  "Why,  man,  you've  not 
forgotten  already  that  you  bought  Pyramus  five  minutes 
ago?" 

"I  ?" 

"Saw  you  do  it.  What?  You  never  meant  it?  Oh, 
Lord — what  a  game !  Well,  the  colt's  yours,  and  his  trainer 
is  shoving  through  the  crowd  at  this  moment  to  speak  to 
you." 

290 


Bingo's  Flutter 


'But- 


*'Bingo,"  whispered  Margie,  ''don't  write  yourself  down 
an  ass  before  the  multitude.    Pyramus  is  yours." 

"But  my  poor  dear  father,   Margie " 

"Your  poor  dear  father  never  came  to  Newmarket  in 
his  lifetime,  and  you  insult  his  memory  by  presuming  to 
think  that  he  is  here  now.     Hush !'' 

"You  have  bought  a  nice  colt,  Mr.  Masterman,"  said  the 
trainer. 

"Ye-es,"  said  Bingo. 

Ill 

A  very  cheery  dinner  followed,  and  Bingo's  health  was 
drunk  in  the  Lanson  '84.  After  dinner  the  men  made  much 
of  Bingo,  filling  his  glass  several  times  with  the  famous 
Stockbridge  port,  laid  down — as  connoisseurs  know — by 
the  grandfather  of  the  present  peer.  When  they  went 
into  the  hall,  where  a  roulette  table  had  been  set  out,  Bingo 
was  firmly  of  the  opinion  that  he  had  bought  Pyramus  of 
his  own  free  will;  he  had  promised  young  Bicester  to  rise 
with  the  lark  on  the  morrow  to  see  his  horse  at  exercise 
on  the  Lime  Kilns ;  he  had  selected  his  colours ;  he  had 
spoken  of  his  set  of  plans  for  racing-stables.  And  he  was 
listened  to  with  attention  and  courtesy,  for,  as  young  Bices- 
ter observed,  the  words  of  the  rich  are  as  pearls  of  price 
in  the  ears  of  the  poor. 

Young  Bicester,  always  practical  in  money  matters,  sug- 
gested that  the  richest  man  present  should  take  the  bank. 

"That  will  be  dear  Bingham,"  purred  Lady  Stockbridge. 

"You  will  win.  Bingo  dear,"  said  Margie.  "The  bank 
always  wins." 

Some  men  from  the  rooms  dropped  in,  and  the  ball 
began  to  roll.    Bingo  raked  up  innumerable  threepenny-bits 

291 


Some  Happenings 

and  sixpences.  The  only  winner,  indeed,  was  Miss  Potts, 
who  declared  her  intention  of  giving  her  winnings  to  the 
poor.  At  midnight  Lady  Stockbridge  retired,  having  lost 
seventeen  shillings  and  ninepence,  and  her  temper;  the 
other  ladies  were  constrained  to  follow  her.  Then  young 
Bicester  proposed  that  the  men  should  go  on  playing. 
Bingo,  gazing  at  the  pile  of  loose  silver  in  front  of  his 
chair,  made  no  objections;  and,  as  he  lit  Margie's  candle, 
suggested  Monte  Carlo  as  a  pleasant  spot  for  a  honeymoon. 

"Give  you  my  word,"  he  added,  'T*d  no  idea  roulette  was 
such  an  amusin'  game." 

*T  love  you  when  you  talk  like  that !"  replied  his  Margie. 

However,  in  the  course  of  the  next  two  hours  Bingo 
lost  his  little  pile  of  silver  and  five  thousand  pounds.  It 
was  young  Bicester's  night  as  well  as  day,  and  he  backed 
his  luck.  He  said  afterwards  that  he  felt  in  his  bones 
that  he  must  win,  because  Fortune  had  taken  from  him 
Margie  and  given  her  to  Bingo.  Those  present  who  knew 
Bingo's  inherited  reluctance  "to  part"  were  amazed  at  that 
young  man's  coolness  and  good  temper,  although  Stocky 
observed  that  if  anything  could  work  miracles  nowadays 
it  was  surely  the  port  his  grandfather  had  laid  down,  not 
to  mention  the  Lanson. 

"You'll  never  miss  it,  old  chap,"  said  young  Bicester,  as 
he  pocketed  Bingo's  I.O.U.  "And  besides,  you'll  get  all 
of  it  back  to-morrow.  Tell  your  man  to  call  you  at  five 
sharp." 

"Yes,  I'll  get  it  back  to-morrow,"  said  Bingo,  with  a  gay 
laugh.  "Py ramus  can  carry  five,  ten,  fifteen  thousand 
pounds !" 

"There  is  no  doubt  about  it,"  said  -  Stocky  to  young 
Bicester:    "Bingo  means  to  have  a  flutter." 

None  the  less  Bingo  was  not  feeling  quite  himself  when 
he  was  shaken  into  consciousness  the  following  morning 
292 


Bingo's  Flutter 

at  five,  although  his  face  brightened  when  he  met  Margie 
booted  and  habited  in  the  hall.  She  kissed  him  before 
young  Bicester  and  the  third  footman. 

"That  is  because  you  lost  your  money  like  a  dear  little 
man,"  she  said  fondly. 

After  that  the  trio  talked  of  Pyramus  till  the  Lime  Kilns 
were  reached.  Here  many  noble  quadrupeds  galloped  past 
them;  here  the  trainer  of  Pyramus  swore  that  the  colt  was 
fit  to  run  for  a  man's  life  or  fortune ;  here  Bingo  declared, 
for  the  forty-first  time,  that  he  meant  to  back  his  colt  to 
win  him  twenty  thousand  pounds.  Young  Bicester  thought 
it  might  be  done  if  Bingo's  money  was  carefully  divided 
amongst  the  gentlemen  of  the  ring. 

"You  mustn't  be  too  bold,  my  pet,"  said  Margie  reprov- 
ingly. "Remember  Jubilee  Juggins.  And  besides,  I  don't 
want  you  to  break  the  ring  till  I  am  paid  yesterday's  win- 
nings." 

"What  did  you  win?"  said  Bingo. 

"Yes:  what  did  you  win?"  repeated  young  Bicester. 
"Including  last  night,  I  cleaned  up  about  seven  thou." 

"I  never  tell  what  I  win,  or  lose,"  said  wise  Margie. 

But  when  Bingo  moved  off  for  a  few  words  in  private 
with  his  trainer,  young  Bicester  asked  the  question  again: 
"Did  it  run  into  four  figures?"  He  knew  that  she  had 
been  amazingly  lucky,  that  she  always  was  amazingly 
bold. 

"I'll  tell  you/'  murmured  Margie.  "I  won  eighteen  hun- 
dred pounds.    Almost  am  I  persuaded  to " 

"Look  here,"  interrupted  young  Bicester  eagerly.  "I've 
a  plan  which  I  think  is  sound.  Pyramus  will  start  with 
odds  on  him.  I  know  this  Newmarket  crowd — and  so  do 
you.  When  they  find  out  that  somebody  is  backing  the  colt 
to  win  a  corking  big  stake,  they'll  plunge:  and  that's  our 
opportunity,   for  honestly  I  don't  think  he  can  beat  two 

293 


Some  Happenings 

others  whom  I  can  name.  We'll  lay  twelve  thousand  againsj; 
the  colt.  If  he  wins,  there  is  Bingo  for  you,  richer  than 
ever.  If  he  loses,  there  is  true  love  and  a  nice  working 
capital  for  two  who  know  the  ropes.     Now  then — choose !" 

She  looked  hard  into  his  laughing,  debonair  face,  at  his 
fine  seat  on  his  cob,  at  his  brown  slender  hands;  then  her 
eyes  roved  reluctantly  to  the  somewhat  pulpy  figure  of 
Bingo. 

"If  Pyramus  loses,"  she  said,  with  decision,  "Bingo  may 
go  to  Jericho." 

"And  the  fair  Potts  may  go  with  him,"  added  young 
Bicester. 


IV 


"By  Jove!"  said  Bingo>  at  a  quarter-past  four,  "I  stand 
to  win  a  goodish  stake." 

*'Andto  lose,  what?" 

''Or  to  lose "  corrected  Bingo.  "Who  ever  heard  of 
winning  and  losing?" 

"I  have,"  said  Margie,  enigmatically. 

"You  are  too  excited,"  said  Bingo  critically,  not  ill 
pleased  at  his  own  self-possession. 

*Tyramus  may  lose." 

"Not  he,"  said  Bingo  confidently.  "Look  at  him,"  he 
cried,  as  the  horses  cantered  past, — "what  a  stride !" 

"Why,  little  Johnny  is  up!"  said  Margie,  in  a  tone  of 
voice  which  raised  Bingo's  eyebrows. 

"I  got  him  at  the  last  moment — wonderful  luck!  These 
Yankee  beggars  can  ride.  Hullo !  is  this  heat  too  much 
for  you,  Margie?" 

"Don't  fuss!"  she  said  sharply. 

He  stared  at  her  stupidly,  stolidly — so  she  was  thinking. 
But  if  love  blinds  some,  it  is  as  euphrasy  and  rue  to  clear 
294 


Bingo's  Flutter 

the  vision  of  others.  Bingo  bHnked  at  his  Margie's  white 
cheeks  and  dilated  eyes.  Was  it  possible  that  she,  his 
beloved,  could  be  so  affected  by  a  mere  horserace? 

'This  sort  of  thing  is  bad  for  you,"  he  said,  in  a  tone 
she  had  never  heard  from  him  before.  Now  it  was  her 
turn  to  stare  at  a  new  Bingo.  For  a  moment  each  peered 
into  the  soul  of  the  other,  and  then  each,  as  if  animated 
by  a  common  sense  of  repulsion,  turned  aside  their  eyes. 
Bingo  had  seen  a  reckless,  desperate  demon  of  hazard; 
Margie  glimpsed  the  cold,  cautious  merchant  appraising 
goods  he  had  purchased. 

Margie  closed  her  eyes  for  an  instant  and  prayed.  She 
had  long  ago  lost  the  habit  of  prayer  and  its  form.  Only 
the  most  elementary  phrase  escaped  from  her  heart:  ''O 
God— give  me  George,  not  this  man!"  She  repeated  this 
again  and  again,  as  she  gazed  through  her  glasses  at  the 
jumble  of  colour  and  motion  far  down  the  course  which 
indicated  that  the  horses  were  about  to  start. 

''They're  oif !" 

Her  hands  were  trembling,  and  the  man  at  her  side  had 
his  cold  eyes  on  them.  Why  had  this  pitiful  feminine 
weakness  assailed  her  at  such  a  moment?  With  a  desperate 
effort  she  regained  control  of  her  muscles.  Her  cheek  had 
begun  to  twitch:  she  was  possessed  of  a  palsy.  Ah!  her 
prayers  had  been  answered.  She  could  see  now.  Pyramus 
was  neither  first,  nor  second,  nor  third.  Across  the  broad 
riband  of  turf  came  the  hoarse  growl  of  the  ring,  deepen- 
ing into  an  angry  bellow  as  the  second  sped  by.  Pyramus! 
The  hateful  name  smote  her.  Pyramus— Pyramus!  Margie 
closed  her  eyes,  unable  to  look  as  the  horses  thundered  by. 
She  heard  the  man  next  Bingo  say  in  a  quiet  drawl :  ''Near 
thing  that."  Then  the  roar  of  the  ring  sounded  like  the 
murmur  of  a  summer  sea,  a  sea  upon  whose  placid  tides 
she  must  embark. 

295 


Some  Happenings 

When  she  recovered  consciousness,  her  eyes  met  those 
of  young  Bicester,  who  was  bending  over  her.  She  could 
see  Bingo  too,  looking  very  uneasy,  and  her  mother  with  a 
face  aflame  with  interrogation.  Her  faculties  quickened 
at  once.  Pyramus  had  lost.  Good  heavens !  It  had  indeed 
been  a  near  thing  for  her.  She  smiled  faintly  at  young 
Bicester,  wondering  why  he  looked  so  impassive.  Then 
her  lips  parted,  and  the  word  she  had  heard  as  she  fainted 
quivered  from  them. 

"Pyramus?" 

*'Has  won  by  a  short  head,"  said  young  Bicester,  coolly. 


V 


Lady  Stockbridge  always  assures  the  country  cousins 
whom  she  has  cut  dead  in  Town  that  she  is  short-sighted, 
but  her  sister  maintains  that  nothing  escapes  her  keen  grey 
eyes.  Ulpon  this  occasion  she  sent  Bingo  to  the  paddock, 
where  little  Johnnie  was  about  to  step  into  the  scales,  and 
asked  young  Bicester  to  find  the  carriage.  Bingo  hesitated 
for  a  brief  moment,  and  then  went  his  way.  Later,  as  he 
passed  the  small  stand  in  the  enclosure  where  sit  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Jockey  Club,  a  portly  man  joined  him. 

''Congr — r — ratulate  you,"  he  said,  slightly  rolHng  the 
**r."     ''You  are  Fortune's  son,  mon  cher." 

Bingo  never  smiled,  but  he  accepted  the  cigar  the  other 
offered  with  a  "Thank  you,  Count." 

The  Austrian  eyed  him  shrewdly.  Then  he  spoke 
quickly:  'T  am  told  you  bought  the  colt  under  a  misap- 
prehension— heinf    Do  you  intend  to  keep  him?" 

The  son  of  old  Masterman  scented  a  buyer.  One  of  his 
sire's  business  maxims  floated  into  his  mind :  "Buy  on  the 
slumps;  sell  on  the  bumps."  The  Austrian  was  known  to 
296 


Bingo's  Flutter 

* 

be  a  buyer  who  paid  any  price  for  a  horse  which  took  his 
fancy. 

"Pyramus  is  for  sale,"  said  Bingo,  slowly,  and  he  named 
a  price  which  represented  a  profit  such  as  would  have 
warmed  the  heart  of  old  Masterman. 

"I  take  him,"  said  the  Austrian. 

That  night,  at  dinner,  Stocky  uncorked  the  last  of  the 
Lanson  '84,  and  once  more  the  health  of  Pyramus  was 
drunk  and  that  of  his  owner.  Margie  had  quite  recovered 
from  the  effects  of  what  her  mother  called  an  "indispo- 
sition"; she  was  wearing  her  prettiest  frock  and  a  radiant 
smile.  She  sat  by  Bingo,  and  young  Bicester  sat  opposite, 
beside  the  jam-maker's  only  daughter. 

''Speech,  speech.  Bingo!"  cried  young  Bicester,  as  he 
emptied  his  glass. 

The  others  repeated  the  words.    Bingo  stood  up. 

'Tyramus,"  said  the  hero  of  the  hour,  "is  a  niceish  colt, 
but  he  is  mine  no  longer.  I  sold  him  this  afternoon.  I — I 
shall  not  race  any  more.    I — er — have  had  my  little  flutter." 

He  sat  down  in  a  silence  which  manifested  the  stupefac- 
tion of  the  company.  Lady  Stockbridge  was  the  first  to 
recover  the  use  of  her  tongue. 

"I  am  glad,  Bingham,"  she  said  blandly,  "that  you  have 
made  this  resolution.  I  am  an  old  woman,  although  I  hope 
that  I  do  not  look  one,  and  I've  been  on  almost  every  race- 
course in  Europe;  but,  knowing  what  I  know,  I  say  again 
that  I  applaud  your  resolution.  In  the  evening  of  my  life 
it  will  be  a  consolation  to  reflect  that  one  who  is  near  and 
dear  to  me  does — not — race." 

'The  old  hypocrite!"  said  young  Bicester,  quite  audibly. 

''Mother  backed  the  wrong  'uns  this  afternoon,"  ex- 
plained Stocky. 

After  dinner  no  one  suggested  roulette;  and  young 
Bicester,  rather  ostentatiously,  begged  Miss  Potts  to  teach 

297 


Some  Happenings 

him  Patience,  which  he  admitted  he  had  never  learned,  and 
which,  he  added,  might  prove  of  service  to  beguile  *'the 
evening  of  his  life."  Margie  proposed  to  Bingo  that  they 
should  walk  on  the  lawn — au  clair  de  la  lune.  Lady  Stock- 
bridge  composed  herself  for  a  well-earned  nap. 

"Well,"  said  Margie,  sharply,  when  she  found  herself 
alone  with  her  lover,  "what  have  you  got  to  say?  How — 
how  dared  you  sell  Pyramus?" 

"You  told  me  you  were  straight,  and '* 

"And  what?" 

"And  I  believed  you,"  said  Bingo,  coldly.  "You  pro- 
posed to  enter  into  partnership  with  me.  We — er — sealed 
the  articles  in  the  usual  way.  I  am  talking  business  now. 
But  this  afternoon  the  partnership  was  dissolved." 

"By  you,"  said  Margie  vehemently. 

"By  you — first,"  Bingo  retorted.  "Your  prayer,  Lady 
Margaret,  was  heard  not  by  Him  to  whom  it  was  addressed, 
but  by  me.  You  prayed  as  children  pray — perhaps  you 
have  not  prayed  since  you  were  a  child — and  children  pray 
aloud." 

"I  prayed  aloud !"  she  repeated  in  amazement,  for  the 
words  of  her  prayer  had  escaped  memory. 

"You  said,  not  once,  but  three  times,  *0  God,  give  me 
George — not  this  man.'  " 

Margie  was  silent. 

"1  am  not  quite  such  a  fool  as  I  look,"  continued  Bingo. 
"After  the  race  I  went  into  the  ring,  and  I  found  out  one 
or  two  things.  Bicester  laid  an  immense  sum  against 
Pyramus,  and  I  guessed  the  rest." 

Bingo  went  back  to  the  drawing-room  alone;  and  pres- 
ently young  Bicester  left  his  Violet  with  a  muttered  excuse 
to  the  effect  that  he  was  stifling  for  lack  of  air.     Bingo 
took  his  place  at  the  card-table. 
298 


Bingo's  Flutter 

"Doesn't  it  come  out?"  he  asked,  after  looking  at  the 
row  of  cards. 

"No — it  doesn't,"  replied  Miss  Potts,  very  crossly. 
"And  I  don't  think,"  she  added,  naively,  "that  Lord  Bicester 
will  ever  learn  Patience." 

"Perhaps  not,"  replied  Bingo  thoughtfully.  "I  should 
be  so  much  obliged.  Miss  Potts,  if  you  would  try  to  teach 
me. 

Young  Bicester  did  not  come  back  to  the  card-table ; 
and  Bingo  lighted  Miss  Potts'  candle. 

"It  began  badly,"  said  the  girl,  referring  to  the  game 
known  to  Patience  players  as  Job,  "but  it  worked  out 
beautifully  in  the  end,  Mr.  Masterman?" 

"It  began  badly,"  assented  Bingo,  thinking  of  another 
game;  "but  it  is  most  curious,  Miss  Potts,  that  so  many 
things  in  real  life  which  begin  badly  do  turn  out  well,  and 
for  the  best,  in  the  end." 

Before  she  said  her  prayers  that  night,  Miss  Potts  made 
an  entry  in  her  diary : 

"George  is  very  cold  to  me.  He  complained  to-night  of 
the  heat  of  the  room.  Lady  Margaret  was  on  the  lawn. 
Mr.  Bingham  Masterman  seems  to  be  an  understanding 
person." 


29Q 


XVIII 


BULWINKLE  &  CO. 


SIMON  CHEERS  was  the  Co.  He  had  worked  for 
Bulwinkle  diligently  during  twenty  years,  becoming  in 
due  time  head  clerk  to  that  great  man,  and,  as  head  clerk, 
approximating  to  perfection.  He  had  little  initiative,  it  is 
true;  none  of  that  "push"  which  distinguished  Bulwinkle. 
On  the  other  hand,  he  had  no  bad  habits.  He  was  punctual, 
accurate,  healthy,  and  pleasing  in  appearance,  a  rosy  little 
man  with  a  disarming  smile,  cheerful  at  all  times,  and 
astoundingly  contented  with  his  position  in  life,  fiulwinkle 
made  him  junior  partner  (Simon  received  ten  per  cent,  of 
the  profits)  because  he  was  terrified  of  losing  so  faithful  and 
competent  a  servant. 

Simon  lived  with  his  wife  in  a  pretty  cottage  just  outside 
Easthampton,  wherein  Bulwinkle  had  achieved  fame  and 
fortune.  Some  men  wondered  why  Bulwinkle  had  re- 
mained in  a  provincial  town  when  he  might  have  soared 
to  heights  in  London.  He  was  a  stockbroker,  doing  a  fine 
business  with  men  who  knew  him  and  trusted  his  judgment. 
No  London  for  him !  He,  too,  had  begun  married  life  in  a 
cottage  near  Simon's.  But  now  he  occupied  a  castellated 
villa  surrounded  by  park-like  grounds.  He  owned  a  six- 
cylinder  car.  His  wife  wore  many  diamonds,  sporting,  in 
and  out  of  season,  a  mufif  and  stole  of  sable,  not  mink.  In 
300 


Bulwinkle  &  Co. 

fine,   prosperity  exuded  from  every  pore  of   Bulwinkle's 
skin. 

Simon  never  envied  his  chief.  The  difference  between 
sable  and  mink  seemed  to  him  negHgible.  He  affirmed  that 
he  and  "the  wife"  got  more  fun  out  of  their  tri-car  than 
did  Bulwinkle  out  of  the  limousine.  When  he  made  these 
and  similar  statements,  Mrs.  Cheers  never  contradicted 
him.  She  smiled  subtly.  Simon  adored  her.  They  had  no 
children,  and  therefore  were  interdependent.  Let  us  say 
that  they  were  as  happy  as  mortals  can  be,  and  have  done 
with  it. 

Behold  Simon  sitting  in  his  private  room,  receiving  those 
clients  whose  small  interests  could  be  safely  entrusted  to  a 
jimior  partner!  Upon  his  massive  desk  you  will  perceive 
a  bunch  of  Parma  violets  freshly  gathered  by  Mrs.  Cheers 
— a  sweet  oblation !  To  him  is  ushered  in,  by  a  slightly 
supercilious  clerk,  a  seedy  gentleman  of  middle  age,  Mr. 
Thomas  Shafto,  acclaimed  with  enthusiasm  by  Simon  as 
"My  dear  old  Tom !" 

The  two  had  been  chums  at  school. 

Shafto  accepted  a  mild  cigar,  and  sat  down.  He  was 
the  antithesis  of  Simon,  tall,  thin,  excitable,  with  big,  dark 
eyes  burning  feverishly  in  a  white  face.  He  had  not  seen 
Simon  for  more  than  ten  years,  but  he  addressed  him  as 
familiarly  as  if  they  had  parted  the  day  before. 

"Partner,  hay?" 

''Yes,"  said  Simon,  beaming  artlessly. 

"Money  to  burn,  old  man?" 

"Lord  bless  you,  no." 

"I  want  to  interest  you  in  a  scheme  of  mine." 

"Tom,  if  it's  yours  I  am  interested." 

"Knew  you'd  say  that!  Not  changed  a  bit.  Know  any- 
thing about  engines?" 

"I've  a  tri-car." 

301 


Some  Happenings 

Shafto  unrolled  some  papers  and  handed  them  to  Simon. 
who  adjusted  his  pince-nez.  After  reading  the  specifica- 
tions and  glancing  over  the  drawings,  Simon  said,  help- 
lessly : 

"Can't  make  head  or  tail  of  'em." 

'Til  explain." 

He  explained  at  length.  Simon  listened  attentively,  no 
wiser  than  he  was  before.  Presently  he  admitted  as  much, 
adding:    "What  do  you  want?" 

"Cash,"  replied  Shafto.  "I  want  a  couple  of  hundred, 
old  man,  to  patent  this  turbine  in  England,  Germany, 
France,  and  the  United  States.  Two  hundred  will  do  the 
trick.     It's  a  dead  cert." 

Simon  smiled  feebly.  So  many  dead  certs  remained 
dead;  and  yet  he  had  faith  in  Shafto,  regarded  at  school 
as  a  star  of  the  first  magnitude.     Shafto  continued: 

"It's  like  this,  old  man.  I  daren't  show  these  drawings 
to  experts  because  they'd  steal  my  thunder.  The  principle 
simply  roars  at  'em.  I  must  patent  the  thing  and  secure 
my  rights.  After  that  it  will  be  shelling  peas  to  get  all  the 
capital  we  want,  because  my  turbine  is  going  to  revolutionize 
traction  throughout  the  world.  Sim,  this  is  the  chance  of  a 
lifetime;  I'll  let  you  in  share  and  share  alike,  see?  A  half 
interest  in  these,"  he  flicked  the  papers,  "for  a  couple  of 
hundred." 

Simon  smiled  nervously ;  then  he  cleared  his  throat. 

"I'm  much  obliged,  Tom." 

"Not  at  all.  There's  no  man  I'd  sooner  make  rich  than 
you." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  be  made  rich." 

"Wha-a-at?    Come  off  it!" 

"It's  the  solemn  truth.     I've  more  than  I  need  already." 

Shafto  swooped  on  this  admission. 

"Then  you've  a  bit  to  spare  for  an  old  friend?" 
302 


Bulwinkle  &  Co. 

"And — and  I'm  not  interested  in  engines." 

"You  can  take  my  word  that  the  turbine  is  all  right." 

Simon  looked  unhappy.  Two  hundred  pounds  was  a 
vast  sum,  but  he  had  it  to  spare.  Had  his  old  friend  said : 
*'Sim,  Fm  in  a  hole ;  I  must  have  two  hundred,  or  perish," 
why,  then  he  would  have  written  a  cheque  for  that  amount. 
But  his  tri-car  had  filled  him  with  a  loathing  for  machinery. 
Also,  he  mistrusted  business  dealings  with  friends.  Then, 
suddenly,  his  benignant  brow  cleared,  as  inspiration  struck 
him.  Bulwinkle  was  knowledgeable  about  machinery.  Bul- 
winkle boasted  that  he  could  snap  up  any  good  thing  at 
sight.  Bulwinkle  had  an  inordinate  appetite  for  more 
wealth.  After  dinner,  over  a  glass  of  port,  he  would 
prattle  of  steam  yachts  and  other  toys  only  to  be  bought 
by  millionaires.    So  Simon  said : 

"My  chief  is  your  man.    Like  to  see  him?" 

Shafto  hesitated.    "Is  he  an  expert?" 

"He  says  he  is.  But,  Tom,  he's  square.  He  won't  try 
to  rob  you.  And,  later,  when  you've  secured  the  patents, 
Bulwinkle  could  finance  the  enterprise.  Has  money,  and 
knows  men  with  money.    You  see  him." 

"Right,"  said  Shafto. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  man  of  many  inventions  emerged 
from  the  inner  office.  He  carried  a  high  head,  but  rage 
burned  in  his  fine  eyes ;  contempt  curled  his  sensitive  upper 
lip.  Hardly  had  the  door  closed  behind  him  when  he 
exploded. 

"Sim,  this  Bulwinkle  \  a  bull  frog,  blown  out  with  gas 
and  conceit.  He  knows  nothing  about  engines.  I  could 
hardly  keep  my  hands  ofif  the  fellow." 

"Teh,  tch !"  murmured  Simon.     "I'm  sorry." 

Shafto  seized  his  hat,  a  dilapidated  bowler,  and  rammed 
it  on  to  his  head,  cocking  it  at  an  aggressive  angle  with  a 
bang  of  his  hand. 

303 


Some  Happenings 

"Fm  off,"  he  declared. 

"Where  to?"  demanded  Simon,  anxiously.  His  friend's 
air  terrified  him. 

"Don't  say  that  as  if  you  cared." 

*'I  do  care.  The  wife  would  like  to  see  you.  Stay  with 
us." 

''You're  a  good  old  Sim,  but  I  haven't  a  minute  to  waste. 
I  must  get  hold  of  that  cash.  The  sight  of  Bulwinkle 
infuriated  me.  I'm  in  a  hurry  to  be  richer  than  he  is. 
I'd  like  to  fill  his  mean  soul  with  envy  and  jealousy." 

''Not  you,  Tom." 

"Lord,  I'd  love  it!  Ten  years  I've  worked  on  this,  and 
that  thick-headed  ignoramus  condemns  it  in  ten  minutes." 

Simon  stared  uncomfortably  at  his  friend's  thin  cheeks, 
at  his  shabby  clothes,  at  his  bowed  shoulders  Shafto 
coughed.    Simon  winced.    Then  he  plunged. 

"Tom,  you  can  have  the  two  hundred." 

"What?  No.  no,  no!  I'm  hanged  if  I'll  take  it  against 
your  judgment,  out  of  charity." 

"I  believe  in  you,"  said  Simon,  very  earnestly.  "I  want 
to  prove  my  faith  in  you." 

"You  always  were  a  rum  'un." 

Eventually  the  man  of  inventions  yielded  to  kindness 
and  obstinacy,  a  combination  difficult  to  resist.  The  cheque 
was  drawn,  and  also  an  agreement  in  duplicate.  Then 
Simon  said,  hesitatingly: 

"Tom,  I  don't  want  the  wife  to  know  of  this." 

"Why  not?" 

Now  Simon  was  blessed — or  cursed — ^with  a  perfervid 
imagination  never  applied  to  business  except  in  a  negative 
and  subjective  sense.  He  loathed  wild-cat  speculation,  be- 
cause he  could  visualise  its  efiPects.  He  could  oroject  his 
mind  into  the  future,  but  rarely  did  so,  because  the  present 
was  so  pleasant. 
304 


Bulwinkle  &  Co. 

"It  might  unsettle  her,"  he  murmured. 

"Unsettle  her?    How?" 

"We're  both  satisfied  with  things  as  they  are.  No  com- 
plaints at  Wistaria  Cottage,  I  can  assure  you.  If  you  began 
talking  of  millions,  Mrs.  Cheers  might — I  don't  say  she 
would — but  she  might  think  too  much  of  Mrs.  Bulwinkle." 

"Why  Mrs.  Bulwinkle?" 

Simon  fidgeted.  He  was  loyal  even  to  Mrs.  Bulwinkle, 
because  she  was  his  chief's  wife.  But  in  his  heart  he  both 
hated  and  feared  the  august  lady,  trembling  beneath  her 
nod.  Bulwinkle  had  exalted  his  wife  above  all  other  wom- 
en in  Easthampton.  She  looked  down  upon  them  from  the 
castellated  heights  of  her  mansion,  even  as  the  ladies  of 
the  county  at  county  balls  looked  down  upon  her. 

Simon  unburdened  his  soul. 

"Mrs.  Bulwinkle,"  said  he,  pensively,  "is  ambitious.  You 
are  not  quite  fair  to  Bulwinkle,  my  dear  Tom.  You  took 
him  just  now  at  a  disadvantage.  My  fault.  I  am  quite 
sure  that  he  does  not  know  a  great  deal  about  machinery." 

"Nothing  at  all,  Sim." 

"You  exposed  his  ignorance,  and  aroused  in  consequence 
his — er — hostility.     He  can  be — rude." 

"A  perfect  ass !" 

"No,  no ;  I  cannot  permit  that.  A  capital  fellow,  I  assure 
you.     Louisa  Bulwinkle  is — er — dififerent." 

He  paused,  slightly  blushing. 

"Go  straight  on,"  commanded  Tom  Shafto. 

"Louisa  Bulwinkle,"  continued  Simon,  slowly,  "is  all 
that  my  dear  wife  is  not,  but  then  my  wife  has  not  been 
exposed  to  her  temptations." 

"Temptations  ?" 

"Gold,"  said  Simon,  making  a  grimace. 

"A  snob— hay?" 

"Not  quite  that,  but  what  she  has — Bulwinkle  is  very 

305 


Some  Happenings 

generous  to  her — seems  to  have  a  devastating  effect,  not 
upon  her,  but  upon  other  women.  She  sets  the  pace  in 
Easthampton.  The  v^ife,  fortunately,  hke  myself,  prefers 
to  jog-trot  along  in  our  pleasant  groove,  but  there  are 
moments,  Tom,  when  Mrs.  Bulwinkle's  diamonds  do  scratch 
our  glass." 

'*!  understand  perfectly.     Mum's   the  word!" 

"Thank  you." 

II 

What  followed  is  part  of  the  commercial  history  of  Eng- 
land, and  may  be  summed  up  in  a  sentence.  Tom  Shafto 
had  not  laboured  in  vain  for  ten  years.  His  turbine  was, 
as  he  affirmed,  mighty  enough  to  revolutionise  traction. 
After  the  patents  had  been  secured  a  syndicate  was  formed, 
and  of  this  syndicate  Shafto  became  managing  director, 
with  a  half  interest  in  all  profits. 

Simon  might  have  sold  his  share  of  this  half  interest  for 
a  large  sum,  but  he  expressed  no  wish  to  sell,  and  Shafto 
entreated  him  not  to  sell. 

Nobody  knew,  not  even  Bulwinkle,  that  Simon  Cheers 
had  become  rich  beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice,  for  when 
the  merits  of  the  Shafto  turbine  were  universally  ad- 
mitted, Simon,  had  he  chosen  to  sell  his  shares,  would  have 
become  a  richer  man  than  Bulwinkle,  and  Bulwinkle  was 
miserably  aware  that  he  might  have  doubled  his  ample  for- 
tune had  he  known  a  wee  bit  more  about  machinery. 

One  morning  he   said  to  his   junior  partner: 

"That  Shafto  turbine  was  offered  to  me." 

"Yes;  I  sent  Shafto  to  you." 

"So  you  did.     I  had  forgotten.     The  fellow  rubbed  my 
fur  the  wrong  way.     And  his   confounded   specifications 
were  vilely  expressed,  not  even  typed.     He  offered  me  a 
half  interest  for  three  hundred  pounds." 
306 


Bulwinkle  &  Co. 

Simon  smiled.  It  pleased  him  to  learn  that  Tom  had 
raised  the  original  price  to  Bulwinkle. 

''That  half  interest,"  continued  Bulwinkle,  mournfully, 
*'is  worth  to-day  about  two  hundred  thousand — at  least." 

*Ts  it  possible?"  murmured  Simon, 

It  seems  incredible,  but  the  little  man  had  never  com- 
puted what  this  half  interest  was  worth.  There  had  been 
dividends,  but  these  had  been  used  to  buy  more  shares,  on 
Shafto's  urgent  advice.  Not  a  penny,  so  far,  had  gone  to 
swell  Simon's  small  private  account  in  the  Easthampton 
Bank.  Yet  he  knew  that  Bulwinkle  had  calculated  aright, 
for  such  knowledge  was  meat  and  drink  to  him — poison 
in  this  particular  case.  The  senior  partner  concluded, 
abruptly : 

''Promise  me,  Sim,  that  you  will  never  mention  this  re- 
grettable affair  to  Mrs.  Bulwinkle?'' 

"With  pleasure." 

"Nor  to  Mrs.  Cheers,  because " 

Simon  replied  formally : 

*T  promise  never  to  tell  the  wife  that  you  refused  Shafto's 
offer." 

"I   am  much   obliged." 

Meanwhile  no  changes  had  taken  place  at  Wistaria  Cot- 
tage, because  Mrs.  Cheers  remained  in  ignorance  of  what 
had  come  to  pass.  And,  as  day  succeeded  day,  it  became 
increasingly  difficult  for  Simon  to  confess  to  his  beloved 
Emmeline  that  he  had  hidden  from  her  such  a  colossal 
piece  of  news. 

And  then,  at  the  psychological  moment  when  Bulwinkle 
was  moving  out  of  the  castellated  villa  into  what  was  euphe- 
mistically termed  "a  country  seat,"  Tom  Shafto  descended 
upon  Wistaria  Cottage. 

He  came  in  his  own  car,  wearing  a  superb  fur  coat  and 
smoking  an  immense  cigar.     The  mere  sight  of  such  a  car 

307 


Some  Happenings 

purring  melodiously  in  front  of  Wistaria  Cottage  challenged 
the  attention  of  everybody  in  Montmorency  Road.  Being 
Sunday,  the  cottagers  were  at  home.  Simon,  looking  out 
of  the  window,  gasped  his  surprise: 

"It's  Tom  Shafto !'' 

We  pause  to  explain  that  Emmeline  had  heard  and  read 
of  Shafto's  good  fortune.  Simon,  of  course,  confirmed  it. 
Let  us  add  that  Simon  had  not  told  Tom  of  the  deception 
he  still  practised  upon  the  wife.  Tom,  however,  was  well 
aware  that  his  old  friend  drew  no  money  out  of  the  busi- 
ness, nor  had  sold  a  single  share.  It  was  high  time,  in 
his  opinion,  that  Simon  should  retire  from  a  wretched  junior 
partnership  and  enjoy  the  fruits  of  Fortune  and  Leisure. 

Simon  hastened  to  greet  his  friend  and  to  give  him  a 
necessary  hint,  but  the  wife  was  too  quick  for  him,  follow- 
ing hot- foot  upon  his  track. 

"Same  old  pitch,"  said  Shafto,  after  salutations  had  been 
exchanged. 

"Same  old  welcome  for  you,"  said  Simon. 

Shafto  had  not  visited  them  since  the  day  when  Simon 
handed  him  the  cheque,  but  he  noted  no  changes.  The 
cottage  inside  and  out  was  spick  and  span,  but  it  had  been 
so  for  many  years. 

"You'll  stay  with  us?"  asked  Mrs.  Qieers. 

"Delighted." 

The  chauffeur  carried  into  the  tiny  hall  a  fine  suitcase, 
and  was  instructed  to  drive  the  car  to  a  garage. 

"It's  a  lovely  car,"  said  Mrs.   Cheers. 

"What's  yours,  Mrs.  Cheers?" 

"We  haven't  got  one  yet.    The  tri-car  is  still  going." 

Shafto  stared  at  her  in  stupefaction. 

"Not  got  a  car?" 

"We  can't  quite  afford  a  good  car,  and  Simon  won't  have 
a  cheap  one." 
308 


Bulwinkle  &  Co. 

Suddenly  he  saw  that  Simon  was  winking  both  eyes  at 
him.  Shafto  asked  no  more  questions  till  he  found  himself 
alone   with   his   host.      Then   he    said,    sharply: 

"Why  can't  you  afford  a  car?" 

"Emmeline  doesn't  know.'* 

"Great  Scot!" 

"She  ought  to  know,  of  course ;  but  I  funked  telling  her. 
It  meant — changes." 

"I  should  just  think  it  did!" 

"I  told  you  that  we  were  very  happy,  that  we  didn't 
want  changes." 

Shafto  laughed  ironically. 

"Why  say  'we'  ?  My  good  fellow,  if  you  are  cocksure 
that  your  wife  really  shares  your  views,  there  is  even  less 
sense  in  hiding  this  thing  from  her.  But  you  aren't  sure. 
I  see  that  in  your  eye.    Own  up !" 

"I  am  sure  that  she  is  happy  as  we  are;  that  any 
change  would  make  her  less  happy,  particularly  a  very  big 
change." 

"You  know  her  better,  I  expect,  than  she  knows  herself  ?" 

"Perhaps  I  do." 

"She'll  give  you  beans,  old  man,  when  she  does  find  out 
the  truth.  Lordy!  But  what  a  game!  Do  you  sit  there 
and  tell  me  that  nobody  knows?" 

"Not  a  living  soul  in  Easthampton  except  you." 

"Not  Bulwinkle?" 

"Why  should  I  tell  him?" 

"Because  it  would  annoy  him,  humble  him,  deflate  him." 

"Three  excellent  reasons  for  holding  my  tongue." 
■"But — hang  it  all!     Sooner  or  later " 

"Better  later  than  sooner." 

Shafto  perceived  that  argument  would  be  wasted.  He 
stared  at  Simon,  whistling  a  Httle  tune,  but  thinking  of 
Mrs.  Cheers,  now  busily  engaged  in  adding  something  to 

309 


Some  Happenings 

the  Sunday  bill  of  fare.  He  thought  also  of  Bulwinkle  as 
he  hoped  to  see  him  one  day — deflated.  It  was  exasperat- 
ing to  reflect  that  such  deflation  might  never  take  place. 


Ill 


At  the  midday  dinner  the  talk  touched  lightly  upon  many 
topics  before  it  settled  on  that  massive  subject  of  the  King, 
Mrs.  Bulwinkle.  Shafto  heard  of  the  country  seat,  and  a 
garden  which  exacted  four  gardeners  and  a  boy. 

"Hunting  trouble,"  remarked  Simon. 

He  hoped  that  the  w4fe  would  endorse  this  draft  upon 
her  confidence.  To  his  chagrin  she  dishonoured  it  on  pres- 
entation, murmuring  guilelessly : 

**I  have  always  longed  for  a  larger  garden." 

"And — anything  else?"  inquired  Tom.  The  table  was  so 
small  and  cosy  that  he  managed  to  kick  Simon  under  it. 
Mrs.  Cheers  did  not  answer,  so  Tom  continued: 

"A  large  garden,  Mrs.  Cheers,  generally  includes  a  large 
house." 

"And  a  lot  of  lazy  servants  eating  their  ugly  heads 
off,"  said  Simon,  almost  viciously. 

"It  must  be  nice  to  have  a  big,  airy  dining-room,"  mur- 
mured Emmeline.     "Small  dining-rooms  get  so  smelly." 

Tom,  the  hardened  sinner,  chuckled. 

"Mrs.  Bulwinkle  says "  Emmeline  went  on. 

"Bother  Mrs.  Bulwinkle !"  cried  Simon. 

"By  all  means,"  said  Shafto ;  "but  let  us  hear  what  she 
says."    He  turned  politely  to  his  hostess. 

"Mrs.  Bulwinkle  says  that  wealth  enlarges  one's  circle, 
whereas  poverty  diminishes  it.  Sim  and  I  live  in  rather  a 
small  circle." 

Tom  said,  carelessly: 
310 


Bulwinkle  &  Co. 

"Is  Mrs.  Bulwinkle  a  great  friend  of  yours?" 

"She  never  dropped  me,  Mr.  Shafto." 

"As  she  did  others,"  snapped  Simon. 

"Oh,  Sim!" 

"She  comes  here,"  said  Simon,  giving  rein  to  his  irri- 
tation, "to  flaunt  her  money  in  Emmeline's  face.  Every- 
thing she  buys  she  shows  to  Emmeline.     Pah !" 

"Sim,  dear,  I  have  never  seen  you  so  ruffled." 

Simon  pulled  himself  together,  and  became  at  once  the 
smiling,  genial  host.  Presently  Emmeline  retired,  leaving 
the  men  with  a  decanter  of  port,  and  some  cigars  which 
belonged  to  Shafto.  As  soon  as  they  were  alone,  Shafto 
said,  curtly — 

"It's  a  monstrous  shame." 

"What  is,  Tom?" 

"Denying  your  dear  wife  the  satisfaction  of  soaring 
above  Mrs.  Bulwinkle." 

Simon  sipped  his  wine,  but  did  not  enjoy  it.  His  rosy 
face  became  clouded.     Tom  continued,  fluently: 

"I  made  my  will  the  other  day,  Sim." 

"Did  you  ?" 

"I've  left  every  bob  to  you,  old  man." 

"You're  joking." 

"Not  I.  I've  no  kin  to  care  about.  I  told  you  once  that 
I  wanted  to  make  you  rich ;  and  I  meant  it.  You  are  rich, 
and  when  I  turn  up  my  toes  you'll  be  richer  than  half  a 
dozen  Bulwinkles,  but  you  ain't  grateful.     Not  a  bit." 

"Hope  you'll  outlive  me,"  said  Simon. 

"I  may  or  I  may  not.  In  any  case,  it's  mighty  plain  that 
your  wife  does  not  quite  share  your  quixotic  views  about 
money.     She  could  do  with  a  bit  more." 

Simon  nodded  helplessly. 

"Be  a  man,  and  give  her  what  she  wants." 

"But  I  can't  bring  myself  to  tell  her." 

311 


Some  Happenings 

"Let  me  tell  her,"  said  Shafto,  eagerly.  "It  would  give 
me  the  sincerest  pleasure  to  do  so.  I'll  choose  the  right 
moment,  and  I'll  cover  you  v^ith  glory." 

"All  right,"  said  Simon,  gloomily. 

"I'd  like  to  tell  Bulwinkle,  too." 

"You  can." 

"Done !" 

IV 

Opinions  may  differ  as  to  whether  Tom  Shafto  was  jus- 
tified in  choosing  the  moment  that  he  did  to  enlighten  Mrs. 
Cheers  and  Mr.  Bulwinkle.  He  said  afterwards,  with  an 
unregenerate  chuckle,  that  his  hand  had  been  forced.  Ad- 
mittedly, he  had  a  sense  of  the  dramatic.  Also,  he  had 
drunk  three  glasses  of  port,  and  was  feeling,  as  he  put  it, 
full  of  beans.  By  the  luck  of  things,  moreover,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Bulwinkle  dropped  in  to  tea,  looking  aggressively 
prosperous.  Bulwinkle  had  forgotten  his  shabby  visitor,  or 
shall  we  say  that  he  was  unable  to  identify  him  with  the 
smiling,  well-dressed  managing  director  of  a  booming  busi- 
ness? 

His  heavy  jaw  fell  at  least  two  inches  when  Simon  pre- 
sented Mr.  Thomas  Shafto.  A  furtive  glance  at  his  wife 
was  not  lost  upon  the  astute  Tom,  who  divined  that  Mrs. 
Bulwinkle  had  never  been  informed  of  the  vast  fortune 
which  her  husband  had  let  slip  between  his  thick  fingers. 
Said  Tom,  pleasantly : 

"We've  met  before,  Mr.  Bulwinkle." 

He  looked  at  Mrs.  Bulwinkle  and  smiled.  The  august 
lady  smiled  in  return,  much  impressed  by  Tom's  easy  man- 
ner.   She  decided  that  he  must  be  "county." 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  purred;  "at  Sir  Orlando  Dampney's,  I 
think?" 

312 


Bulwinkle  &  Co. 

Sir  Orlando  was  a  county  magnate.  Not  till  very  re- 
cently had  Mrs.  Bulwinkle  been  deemed  worthy  of  an  in- 
vitation to  a  garden  party  at  Dampney  Park. 

''No,"  said  Tom,  sweetly.  "Mr.  Bulwinkle  and  I  met 
in  his  office.  I  offered  him  a  half  interest  in  the  Shafto 
turbine  for  three  hundred  pounds.  He  glanced  at  my  draw- 
ings and  saw  nothing  in  them,  but  they  would  have  been 
worth  to  him  to-day  a  trifle  over  two  hundred  thousand 
pounds." 

He  laughed.  Mr.  Bulwinkle's  complexion  deepened  in 
tint.     Mrs.  Bulwinkle  said,  icily: 

"Indeed !" 

Skilfully,  Tom  changed  the  talk  to  gardens. 

"I  ought  to  have  a  first-class  gardener.  Do  you  know 
of  one,  Mrs.  Bulwinkle?" 

Simon  gasped.     Tom,  he  knew,  lived  in  a  London  flat. 

Mrs.  Bulwinkle  nodded  majestically. 

"We  have  an  excellent  man,  a  Scotchman.  He  came  from 
the  Marquess  of  Mel,  with  the  highest  character.  He  may 
know  of  somebody.  It's  such  a  comfort  to  feel  assured  that 
one's  grapes  will  not  disgrace  one.  And  carnations!  Our 
last  man  was  so  unlucky  with  his  carnations.  Emmeline, 
dear,  don't  be  tempted  to  try  carnations !" 

Simon  said,  derisively : 

"Emily  prefers  carrots.  We  had  some  young  ones  for 
dinner  to-day.    Delicious !" 

"Dinner?"  Mrs.  Bulwinkle  raised  her  handsome  brows. 
"Of  course !  How  stupid  of  me !  It  is  so  nice  of  you  two 
dears  to  dine  on  Sunday  in  the  middle  of  the  day." 

"We  can't  do  otherwise  with  only  two  servants." 

"Quite — quite.     I  had   forgotten." 

In  a  voice  which  surprised  everybody  except  Tom  Shaf- 
to, Simon  said,  sharply: 

"Do  you  want  more  than  two,  Emmy?    Would  you  like 

3^3 


Some  Happenings 

a  butler  and  a  brace  of  footmen,  and  three  in  the  kitchen, 
and  four  housemaids,  and  a  lady's-maid  ?    Would  you  ?" 

Emmeline  appeared   slightly  disconcerted. 

"I— d-d-don't  know." 

"Emmy  likes  housekeeping,"  affirmed  Simon ;  "don't  you, 
dear?" 

"Sometimes,"  she  replied,  guardedly. 

"Nobody  likes  it,"  rumbled  Bulwinkle.  "Women  do  it 
because  they  have  to.  The  right  sort,  like  Mrs.  Cheers,  do 
it  well,  and  make  no  complaints.  The  missis  and  I  pigged 
it  once.  Small  house,  half  the  size  of  this.  And  we  made 
the  best  of  it,  too.     But  she  loathed  it." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Bulwinkle,  viciously.  She  was  angry 
with  her  husband  for  alluding  to  that  ignoble  past.  Simon 
jumped  up,  glaring  at  Mrs.  Bulwinkle. 

"Perhaps  you  did,"  he  jerked  out;  "but  my  wife  is  dif- 
ferent.    She  loves  the  home  I've  made  for  her." 

"Yes,"  said  Emmeline. 

Bulwinkle  laughed  scornfully.  Everybody,  except  Tom 
Shafto,  was  more  or  less  on  edge. 

"Let's  have  the  truth,"  he  snorted.  "Let's  face  the  facts. 
I  hate  humbug.  You're  an  honest  woman,  Mrs.  Cheers,  and 
we're  old  friends.  Sim  here  has  only  one  fault  that  I 
know  of.  He  lacks  ginger.  I've  often  wondered  whether 
you  really  thought  as  he  did.  Now,  do  you?  If  old  Sim 
were  rich,  wouldn't  you  like  it  ?" 

"No,  she  wouldn't,"  said  Simon. 

"You  shut  up,  Sim !    I'm  addressing  your  wife." 

Mrs.  Cheers  blushed,  meeting  the  pitying  glance  of  the 
rich  woman,  the  cold  eyes  that  challenged  her  to  speak  the 
truth  if  she  dared. 

She  answered : 

"Dear  Sim,  I— I  think  I  should  like  it." 

"Good !"  exclaimed  Tom  Shafto. 
314 


Bulwinkle  &  Co. 

He  rose  up,  tall  and  gaunt,  dominating  the  others  with 
his  eyes,  his  thin  hands,  and  his  deep  voice. 

"Sim  is  rich!"  he  declared. 

Simon  glanced  at  Emmeline,  but  she  was  staring  at  Tom 
Shafto  with  an  odd,  dilated  expression  about  her  kind  eyes 
which  he  had  never  remarked  before.  Bulwinkle  and  his 
Louisa  were  staring  also  at  Tom,  open-eyed  and  open- 
mouthed,  unable  for  the  moment  to  apprehend  this  amazing 
declaration,  although  tremendously  impressed  by  it. 

Tom  added  an  effective  touch. 

''Old  Sim,"  he  repeated,  ''is  very  rich !" 

Now  Tom  ought  to  have  concentrated  his  attention  upon 
the  Bulwinkles,  because  we  know  that  he  wished  to  score 
heavily  at  the  stockbroker's  expense.  But  he  forgot  their 
existence  for  the  moment,  being  fascinated  by  what  he  read 
upon  the  artless  face  gazing  so  strangely  into  his.  Tom  had 
suffered  during  his  life  from  ill-health,  from  poverty,  and 
from  what,  perhaps,  inflicts  the  greatest  pain  of  all — cumu- 
lative disappointments.  None  of  the  many  inventions  of 
this  clever  man  had  been  successful  except  his  wonderful 
turbine.  Because  he  had  suffered,  he  was  able  to  detect 
the  signs  of  suffering  in  others.  In  a  flash  it  was  revealed 
to  him  that  Sim's  wife,  gentle  creature,  had  been  tormented 
by  this  vulgar,  purse-proud,  blatant  woman.  And  Emmy 
had  endured  ten  thousand  odious  comparisons  for  the  sake 
of  Simon,  who  remained  guilelessly  insensible  of  her  humili- 
ations. A  well-worn  Latin  tag  came  into  his  mind:  Gutta 
cavat  lapidem  non  vi,  sed  saepe  cadendo !  Yes ;  her  fond 
heart  had  been  worn  away  by  this  interminable  trickle  of 
pity  and  patronage. 

"Very  rich?"  repeated  Bulwinkle,  hoarsely. 

Tom  turned  to  him. 

"A  millionaire  in  the  possession  of  his  wife,  Mr.  Bul- 
winkle." 

315 


Some  Happenings 

Bulwinkle's  congested  face  expressed  momentary  relief. 
He  nodded  ponderously,  and  broke  into  a  laugh. 

*'Yes,  yes;  very  neat.  Couldn't  have  put  it  better  my- 
self." 

"Sim  is  rich,  also,"  continued  Tom,  addressing  Bulwinkle, 
"in  a  sense  which  you  can  more  easily  understand  and  ap- 
preciate. He  owns  what  I  do,  a  one-quarter  interest  in  the 
Shafto  turbine,  the  interest  which  I  offered  to  you,  Mr. 
Bulwinkle.  At  my  request" — Tom  was  an  accomplished  liar 
— "Sim  has  allowed  me  to  break  this  news  to  all  of  you, 
and  especially  to  his  wife.  He  has  hidden,  at  what  cost 
to  himself  you  can  guess,  this  secret  from  Mrs.  Cheers,  be- 
cause he  was  afraid  to  raise  false  hopes  in  her  tender  bosom. 
Not  till  quite  recently  was  the  commercial  success  of  my 
turbine  assured.  Sim  felt,  perhaps,  that  he  owed  this  to  me, 
this  gratification,  this  immense  gratification  of  being  able  to 
tell  his  wife,  and  his  partner,  and  his  wife's  friend,  of  the 
good  fortune  which  has  come  to  him  so  suddenly.  He  is 
rich,  and  he  will  be  much  richer,  for  I  have  left  to  him 
my  fortune  also,  and  I  shall  not  make  old  bones.  Let  us 
congratulate  these  two  dear  people." 

"Is  this  true?"  gasped  Bulwinkle. 

"Yes,"    replied   Sim. 

But  Simon  Cheers  was  right.  Riches  brought  many  things 
to  him  and  his  wife,  but  the  simple  happiness  born  of 
contentment  and  freedom  from  care  was  left  behind  in 
Wistaria  Cottage. 


316 


XIX 

DOG-LEG  RAPIDS 

YOUNG  JOE  was  a  trapper.  His  father,  Old  Joe,  whose 
memory  is  still  green  up  and  down  the  river,  was  a 
trapper  before  him.  Father  and  son  were  accounted 
'lucky."  But  Old  Joe  spent  his  money,  whereas  Young 
Joe  saved  nearly  every  dollar  he  made.  Old  Joe  had  been 
"one  of  the  boys";  Young  Joe  wore  the  blue  ribbon  of  a 
stainless  and  abstemious  life. 

From  this  brief  statement  of  fact  it  may  be  inferred  that 
Young  Joe's  solemn  declaration  that  he  meant  to  "quit  the 
woods  and  git  married"  aroused  more  excitement  amongst 
the  girls  than  it  did  amongst  the  boys  of  Dog-leg. 

"He  won't  git  no  girl,"  said  one  of  the  boys. 

A  sage  answered  the  rash  prophet: — 

"That  is  whar  you  show  yer  cussed  ignerunce  of  fe- 
males. They  prefer  these  quiet,  mealy-mouthed  fellers 
every  time.  I  reckon  it  ter  be  the  motherin'  instinct.  Some 
mighty  nice  purty  girl'll  up  an'  marry  Young  Joe,  jest  be- 
cause he  looks  an'  acts  as  if  he  was  Mary's  little  lamb." 

"Wal,  mebbe  some  peaky-faced,  cow-hocked,  flat-chested 
schoolmarm'U  take  pity  on  him." 

"My  son — yer  way  off  agen.    Young  Joe'll  pick  a  peach." 

Very  soon  it  became  known  that  Young  Joe  was  courting 
Euphemia  Biddle,  only  child  of  Josiah  Biddle,  ex-timber 
cruiser  and  proprietor  of  the  Biddle  House,  Dog-leg,  Ore- 
gon. 

The  audacity  of  this  courtship  simply  confounded  the  stal- 
wart lumbermen  of  Dog-leg.      Matrimonially  considered, 

317 


Some  Happenings 

Pheenie  was  the  prize-packet  of  the  township — pretty, 
petite,  and  pert.  Mr.  Biddle  regarded  her,  very  properly, 
as  the  apple  of  his  eye.  And,  in  the  fulness  of  time,  the 
Biddle  House  and  other  valuable  property  would  belong  to 
Pheenie. 

She  had  many  suitors,  but  we  are  concerned  in  this  nar- 
rative with  two :  Young  Joe  and  Shorty  Sissons,  called 
"Shorty"  because  he  was  six  foot  two  in  his  stockings 
and  a  big  bull  of  a  man.  Young  Joe  may  be  envisaged  as 
his  antithesis  in  all  things. 

At  first  Shorty  treated  the  affair  from  a  humorous  point 
of  view. 

"Young  Joe,"  he  remarked,  "is  after  a  fine  pelt.  I'd  jest 
as  lief  he  did  monkey  around  Pheenie,  because  he'll  keep 
likelier  fellers  off  the  grass.  If  he  gets  het  up  any,  Fll  hev 
to  talk  to  Young  Joe." 

"He  ain't  no  talker,  anyway,"  said  a  friend. 

This  was  true.  Young  Joe,  like  most  trappers,  had  the 
great  gift  of  silence.  For  many  months  each  year  he 
tended  his  traps  alone.  When  he  paddled  down  river  into 
the  haunts  of  men,  with  his  pelts  piled  high  in  the  stern 
of  the  canoe,  he  would  nod  his  head  in  passing  and  smile. 
After  the  sale  of  his  pelts,  when  accosted  cheerily  in  the 
market-place  by  would-be  burners  of  another's  oil,  he  would 
smile  as  before  and  go  his  way — to  the  local  bank.  Speak- 
ing ornithologically,  with  a  flying  reference  to  migrating 
birds,  he  may  be  said  to  have  had  a  sense  of  direction.  He 
held  warily  aloof  from  crowds. 

His  wonderful  gift  of  silence  may  have  attracted  Phee- 
nie, who  could  wag  a  lively  tongue.  She  became  aware 
of  his  long,  penetrating  glances.  When  she  asked,  coquet- 
tishly,  "What  you  think  about  all  the  time?"  he  replied, 
curtly,  "You." 

The  monosyllable  sank  deep  into  Pheenie's  heart.     She 

318 


Dog-Leg  Rapids 

divined  somehow  that  Shorty's  thoughts  were  concentrated 
upon  Mr.  Sissons.  As  much,  and  more,  could  be  said  of 
his  talk.  Shorty,  according  to  himself,  had  done  great  deeds 
on  a  score  of  rivers,  and  was  now  boss  of  the  biggest 
logging  camp  in  the  county.  He  assured  her  that  he  could 
lick  his  weight  in  wild  cats,  and  Pheenie  never  doubted  it. 
Whenever  she  looked  at  this  big,  black  mountain  of  a  man 
she  felt  absurdly  small  and  frail.  She  was  aware  that  he 
dominated  her,  that  he  regarded  her  as  his  for  the  asking, 
and  that  her  father — just  such  another  giant — approved  the 
match.    Mr.  Biddle  spoke  derisively  of  Young  Joe. 

"Why  docs  he  come  around  ?"  he  asked  Pheenie. 

"You  ask  him,"  suggested  Pheenie. 

"Is  he  huntin'  trouble  with  Shorty?" 

"I  reckon  you  mean  that  Mr.  Sissons'll  make  trouble  with 
a  man  half  his  size." 

"Young  Joe  ain't  a  man — not  what  I  call  a  man." 

"He  don't  act  like  some  men.  He  ain't  everlastin'ly 
braggin'  'bout  what  he  kin  do;  he  ain't  the  rip-roaringest 
male  in  creation.  I'll  own  up  that  what  he  doesn't  say  in- 
terests me  more'n  Mr.  Sissons'  remarks.  He's  gittin'  the 
habit  o'  repeating  himself." 

"Meanin'  ?" 

"Jest  that.    I'm  tired  o'  hearin'  the  same  old  tune." 

Mr.  Biddle  stared  hard  at  his  daughter.  When  he  spoke 
he  was  almost  inarticulate  with  surprise. 

"Say,  Pheenie,  you  ain't  gone  back  on  Shorty,  her  ye?" 

"He  fatigues  me  awful,  that's  all." 

"You  don't  want  him  around?" 

"I  do  not." 

At  this  moment  business  summoned  Mr.  Biddle  to  his 
bar.  He  was  so  dazed  that  he  handed  out  his  own  particular 
bottle  of  whisky  instead  of  the  special  brand  provided  for 
ordinary  customers. 

319 


Some  Happenings 

He  noticed  Shorty  sitting  in  a  corner  of  the  room  chew- 
ing and  smoking  a  ten-cent  cigar.  Presently  he  joined  them. 
Shorty  began  to  eat  his  cigar  faster  than  usual;  otherwise 
he  made  no  sign.     Mr.  Biddle  said,  pleasantly: 

"How  you  makin'  it,  Shorty?" 

Shorty  removed  what  was  left  of  the  cigar  from  his  large 
mouth  and  expectorated  freely. 

"I'm  snowed  in,"  he  replied.  Then  he  added,  with  in- 
vincible optimism,  "Temporarily." 

Mr.  Biddle  remarked,  casually: 

"A  bold  game  pays." 

"Not  always.  Not  with  all  females.  Some  on  'em  hates 
nice  fresh  meat  and  has  an  onnateral  hankerin'  fer  ice- 
cream. They  kin  be  made  to  see  the  fullishness  o'  sech 
tastes,  but  it  takes  time  to  train  'em,  and  what  worries  me 
is — hev  I  the  time  ter  spare?" 

He  gazed  sorrowfully  at  Mr.  Biddle,  who  said,  firmly: 

"I  allow  that  ye  hev." 

Shorty  murmured,  gloomily : 

"I  ain't  huntin'  trouble  with  Young  Joe.  I  look  over  his 
head,  an'  to  the  right  an'  left  of  the  leetle  cuss  when  we 
happen  together,  but  he's  too  small  fer  me  to  man-handle. 
Anyways,  that's  how  I  feel  about  Young  Joe." 

"Sech  feelin's  does  you  credit." 

Shorty  continued : 

"It's  up  to  you,  as  Pheenie's  father,  to  try  out  Young 
Joe." 

"Up  to  mer 

"In  Pheenie's  eyes,  he's — IT,  the  biggest  thing  in  Dog- 
leg. She  sees  him  with  the  patent  magnifyers  o'  female 
affection.  If  you  could  make  Pheenie  see  Young  Joe  as  he 
is,  if  you  could  hang  him  up  ter  dry  on  yer  clothes-line  as 
a  warnin'  to  all  chicken-livered  dwarfs  an'  dudes  ter  keep 
outer  yer  home-pasture,  I  should  be  obligated  some." 
320 


Dog-Leg  Rapids 

"Chicken-livered?" 

''You  wasn't  on  to  that?  Yes,  sir,  Young  Joe  ain't  got 
no  sand.  He's  a  river-man,  but  you  ask  him  to  run  yer 
rapids." 

"I  will,"  said  Mr.  Biddle. 

The  Dog-leg  Rapids  began  just  below  Mr.  Biddle's  hotel, 
and  might  be  adequately  described  in  toboggan  terms  as  the 
Cresta  Run  of  the  river.  The  broad  stream  flowing  placidly 
above  the  town  here  narrowed  between  high  banks  and  then 
boiled  downwards  in  a  succession  of  cascades  beautiful  to 
behold  but  dangerous  to  navigate,  because  the  river  twisted 
like  a  writhing  snake.  A  nasty,  ugly  bit  of  water,  where 
in  earlier  days  many  a  man  had  met  his  death. 

Mr.  Biddle  spoke  to  Young  Joe  that  same  evening.  He 
found  the  trapper  alone  with  Pheenie  in  the  parlour,  and  the 
lights  were  burning  low.  The  father,  however,  could  see 
plainly  that  his  daughter's  eyes  were  shining,  and  upon  the 
impassive  face  of  the  trapper  lurked  the  ghost  of  a  smile. 
Young  Joe  said,  quietly : 

"Mr.  Biddle,  Pheenie  and  I  have  fixed  things  to  git 
married,  if  you've  no  objection." 

**You  calcilate  to  take  Pheenie  on  yer  trips?" 
"I  calcilate  to  buy  a  half-interest  in  a  small  store  that's 
likely  to  grow  bigger." 
"Here  in  Dog-leg?" 
"Yep." 

Mr.  Biddle  looked  unhappy.  Pheenie,  so  to  speak,  was 
more  than  a  daughter.  Outside  of  the  bar,  she  "ran"  the 
hotel,  reigning  supreme  in  kitchen  and  dining-room.  She 
earned  good  money  that  her  father  kept  in  his  own  posses- 
sion. He  would  have  affirmed — to  do  him  justice — that  he 
was  "saving"  many  dollars  for  his  only  child.  Under  the 
softening  influence  of  his  own  brand  of  whisky  he  had  said 

321 


Some  Happenings 

as  much  many  times.  He  could  hardly  envisage  life  with- 
out Pheenie.     He  remarked,  not  too  discreetly: 

"Thar's  others  wants  Pheenie,  beside  you." 

"I  know  it.    But  Pheenie  wants  me." 

"Yes,"  murmured  Pheenie. 

Mr.  Biddle  then  said,  solemnly: 

"This  yere  is  a  wild  country,  and  it  takes  a  man  as  is 
a  man  to  look  after  a  woman." 

Young  Joe  remained  silent;  Pheenie  glanced  at  him, 
and  took  up  the  cudgels. 

"Air  you  hintin'   that  my  Joe  ain't  a  man?" 

"He  ain't  bin  tried,  Pheenie." 

"Mr.  Shorty  Sissons  has,  an'  convicted  too !" 

This  was  the  unhappy  truth,  and  Mr.  Biddle  knew  it. 
Shorty,  in  a  too  hot  youth,  had  served  a  term  in  the  State 
penitentiary  for  manslaughter.  But  the  fact  that  he  was 
quick  with  his  gun  was  not  reckoned  a  disability  in  lumber- 
camps.  Mr.  Biddle  knew,  moreover,  that  Young  Joe  walked 
the  green  earth  unarmed  and  defenceless.  To  draw  a  pistol 
on  him  and  use  it  meant  murder — in  the  first  degree.  The 
blustering  Shorty  was  well  aware  of  this.  Young  Joe  said, 
hesitatingly : 

"Do  you  want  ter  try  me,  Mr.  Biddle?" 

"Yes,  young  man,  I  do.  You've  bin  up  an'  down  our 
river  considerable,  but  Pve  yet  to  learn  that  you've  run 
Dog-leg  Rapids.    It  takes  sand  ter  do  that." 

Young  Joe  answered,  politely : 

"I  aim  ter  take  no  unnecessary  chances.  My  father  used 
to  run  Dog-leg  because  he  had  to.  'Twasn't  a  portage  in 
his  days." 

"Thet's  so.  But  the  boys  around  these  parts  run  Dog- 
leg fer  fun." 

"I  see.    You  want  me  to  risk  my  life — fer  fun?" 

222 


Dog-Leg  Rapids 

"]stq — fgj.  pheenie.  I  ain't  stuck  on  yer  shape,  but 
Pheenie  is." 

"If  I  run  Dog-leg,  you  give  me  Pheenie?" 

"1  ain't  his  ter  give,  Joe.  Don't  you  be  flim-flammed  into 
this  foolishness.  Shorty  Sissons  put  father  on  to  this  low- 
down  play.  It's  jest  like  him.  It'd  tickle  him  plum  to 
death  ter  see  you  drownding  before  his  eyes.  Now,  don't 
you  give  that  mountain  o'  flesh  the  devilish  satisfaction  of 
attendin'  yer  funeral." 

Young  Joe  smiled  at  her,  nodding  his  head.  Then  his 
mild  blue  eyes  met  the  congested  orbs  of  Mr.  Biddle. 

"I'm  scared  of  Dog-leg,"  he  admitted  ingenuously. 

Mr.  Biddle  snorted. 

"But  I  want  Pheenie,"  continued  Young  Joe.  "And 
I  want  her  to  be  married  accordin'  to  Hoyle,  from  her 
father's  house  and  with  his  blessin'.  I  ain't  askin'  fer 
more'n  that." 

"Wal,  young  feller,  if  you  want  the  girl,  you  know 
what  ter  do." 

"Yep— and  I'll  do  it." 

Mr.  Biddle  frowned. 

"When?" 

"To-morrer." 

Pheenie  jumped  up.  Her  eyes  were  sparkling ;  her  cheeks 
glowed.  Young  Joe  gazed  at  her  in  speechless  admiration. 
She  spoke  curtly  to  her  sire. 

"You  mean  this?"  Mr.  Biddle  nodded,  portentously. 
"Yer  a  party  to  this  put-up  job?"  He  made  no  reply.  The 
girl  waited  a  moment;  then  she  said,  grimly: 

"I  take  a  hand  in  this  game.  If  Joe  runs  Dog-leg  he  must 
take  me  with  him.    Kin  you  swim,  Jodie  ?" 

"Yep." 

"That's  fine!  I  never  learnt  swimmin'.  Mebbe,  you'll 
save  my  life.     I'd  love  to  hev  you  do  it." 

323 


Some  Happenings 

Let  it  be  stated  here  that  Mr.  Biddle,  according  to  his 
lights,  loved  Pheenie.  Let  it  be  added  that  he  had  run 
Dog-leg — once.  More,  he  knew  that  Pheenie  was  quite  as 
obstinate  as  himself.  These  reflections  passed  swiftly 
through  his  brain  as  he  stared  and  glared  at  his  daughter's 
pretty  face.  Looking  at  that  face,  he  remembered  that  two 
years  before  he  had  helped  to  drag  ashore  what  was  left 
of  a  young  man  who  had  tried  to  run  Dog-leg — and  failed. 
He  said,  thickly : 

"1  forbid  that,  child!" 

Pheenie  laughed  derisively. 

"You  forbid  your  daughter  to  run  risks  which  you  ask 
another  man's  son  ter  do — f er  fun  ?" 

"Yer  a  woman ;  he's  a  man." 

"Yes,  I'm  a  woman,  and  proud  of  it,  because  he's  my 
man.  You'd  better  back  down,  father;  mebbe  a  harder  job 
fer  you  than  runnin'  Dog-leg,  but — if  ye  don't,  if  you  stand 
in  with  this  big,  blasphemin',  murderin'  scallywag,  whom  I 
hate  and  despise,  I  stand  in,  too,  with  my  Joe." 

Mr.  Biddle  rose  to  his  feet.  It  will  never  be  known 
whether  or  not  he  believed  his  daughter  to  be  bluffing.  He 
said,  with  finality : 

"You  stand  in — and  be  hanged  to  ye !" 

Having  played  what  he  deemed  to  be  a  trump  card,  Mr. 
Biddle  retired  majestically  to  bed. 

Pheenie  took  tactical  advantage  of  her  sire's  retreat  by 
occupying  a  frontal  position  on  Young  Joe's  knee.  With 
her  arms  about  his  neck  and  her  cheek  against  his,  she  mur- 
mured, persuasively : 

'7oe,  dear,  let's  skin  outer  this.  We  kin  be  married  to- 
morrer  morning." 

Joe  squeezed  her  to  him.    For  a  small  man  he  had  a  very 
satisfying  grip.     But  he  remained,  as  usual,  almost  exas- 
peratingly  silent. 
324 


Dog-Leg  Rapids 

"What  you  say,  Jodie?" 

At  that  Young  Joe  laughed,  and  his  laugh  was  pleasant 
to  hear.  Pheenie,  pondering  many  things  in  her  heart,  noted 
the  genuine  mirth  of  her  lover's  laughter.  Cowards,  she 
decided  instantly,  do  not  laugh  at  such  moments. 

"I  tole  a  whoppin'  lie  jest  now,"  said  Joe. 

"Mercy!" 

"I  ain't  scared  any  of  Dog-leg." 

"What?" 

"I  run  Dog-leg — fer  fun — two  seasons  back." 

"You  never  told  me." 

"Pheenie,  it  was  this  way.  I  hated  to  brag  about  it,  even 
to  you.    And  with  the  boys  it  was  more  so.    See  ?" 

"I  see.  Oh,  Joe,  I  do  love  you!  You're  my  own  little 
man!" 

Young  Joe  continued,  thoughtfully : 

"Dog-leg,  to  a  river-man  as  knows  his  business,  ain't  what 
it's  cracked  up  ter  be.  That  young  feller  yer  dad  snaked 
out  o'  the  rocks  was  plum  full  o'  whisky  afore  he  started. 
I  kin  take  you  down,  Pheenie,  and  I  aim  ter  do  it  with  the 
hull  town  a-lookin'  on.  Then  we'll  be  married  in  style,  ac- 
cordin'  to  Hoyle." 

"I  ain't  scared,"  declared  Pheenie. 

"Honest!  I'd  be  scared  stiff  if  I  thought  you  was.  Phee- 
nie, thar's  another  thing.  Shorty  brags  that  he's  run  Dog- 
leg, but  he's  a  liar,  too." 

"Sakes !    How  you  know  that  ?" 

"Wal — I  heard  him  tell  how  he  done  it.  That  was  enough 
fer  me.  He  was  just  repeatin'  what  some  other  feller  had 
told  him,  and  he  got  mixed  in  the  details.  When  me  and 
you's  run  Dog-leg,  I  calcilate  to  hev  some  fun  with  Mister 
Shorty  Sissons." 

Pheenie  giggled. 

Next  morning  the  town  heard  part  of  the  truth,  enough 

325 


Some  Happenings 

to  excite  the  citizens  of  each  sex.  Pheenie's  resolution  to 
share  risks  with  the  man  of  her  choice  brought  many  thirsty 
souls  to  Mr.  Biddle's  bar.  To  all  and  sundry  Mr.  Biddle 
imparted  the  gilt-edged  information  that,  in  his  opinion, 
Young  Joe  would  back  down  at  the  last  minute.  Shorty 
offered  to  bet  many  dollars  upon  this  issue.  His  bets  were 
taken  by  a  quiet  trapper  who  knew  Young  Joe,  and  may 
have  been  acting  for  him.  Young  Joe  was  seen  on  the 
river  in  his  own  canoe,  testing  the  toughness  of  a  new  pole. 
The  event — if  it  took  place — was  publicly  announced  as  a 
midday  entertainment.  At  noon  punctually  Young  Joe  and 
Pheenie  would  embark  in  the  canoe. 

At  half-past  eleven  Mr.  Biddle  weakened.  Love  for  an 
only  child  triumphed  over  the  coagulated  obstinacy  of  a 
lifetime.     He  took  Pheenie  aside  and  said,  testily: 

"You  want  Young  Joe  and,  by  Jing !  you  kin  hev  him." 

"I  want  more'n  Joe." 

"Meanin'?" 

"I'm  marryin'  a  man,  and  I  want  the  hull  world  ter 
know  it." 

"You'll  git  drownded — sure!" 

"Mebbe.  It's  this  a-way,  father.  I'd  sooner  drown  with 
Joe  than  live  with  any  other  man." 

"Includin'  me?" 

"Yes — includin'  you." 

"You  prefer  that  peaky- faced  leetle  runt  to— me?" 

"I  do — for  a  stone-cold  fact." 

"He'll  back  down." 

"If  you  was  dead  sure  o'  that,  you'd  feel  a  heap  better'n 
ye're  lookin'.  To  make  yer  mind  easier  I'll  tell  ye  this. 
Joe  kin  do  it,  and  he  will  do  it,  and  I  want  to  do  it  with 
him.  Seein'  as  business  is  so  brisk  this  morning,  I  reckon 
you'd  better  go  back  to  the  bar.  One  more  pointer.  Mr. 
Z26 


Dog-Leg  Rapids 

Sissons  is  a  particular  friend  of  yours.     See  to  it  that  he 
don't  swaller  too  much  whisky  before  noon." 

*'Why?" 

"Fer  reasons  which  I'm  not  at  Uberty  ter  state." 

Mr.  Biddle  returned  to  the  bar,  stupefied  and  quite  in- 
capable of  putting  his  thoughts  into  words.  But  he  be- 
lieved (and  hoped)  with  an  ever-increasing  conviction  that 
Young  Joe's  liver  would  be  publicly  displayed  white  as  its 
owner's  blameless  life. 

At  noon  Pheenie  and  Joe  stepped  into  the  canoe.  Phee- 
nie,  smiling  pleasantly,  sat  down  in  the  stern  with  her  lover's 
earnest  injunction  "not  to  budge."  They  slid  out  into  the 
stream.  The  crowd  had  collected  farther  down  at  the 
worst  Dog-leg  turn.  To  compare  once  more  these  rapids 
with  the  famous  Cresta  Run  at  St.  Moritz,  it  will  be  eluci- 
dating to  speak  of  this  particular  twist  in  the  river  as  "Shut- 
tlecock." "Battledore,"  an  easier  turn,  was  higher  up. 
Below  both  lay  a  narrow  passage,  with  fanged  rocks  on  each 
side.  Below  the  passage  again,  in  another  bend  of  the  river, 
was  the  whirlpool  with  its  dangerous  undertow.  From  the 
coign  of  vantage  selected  by  the  crowd  a  good  view  of  these 
four  danger-spots  could  be  obtained. 

But  those  who  had  assembled  in  the  expectation  of  wit- 
nessing either  a  ridiculous  fiasco  or  a  bad  accident  were 
sadly  disappointed.  Young  Joe  gave  a  flawless  perform- 
ance. When  he  stepped  ashore,  to  be  acclaimed  with  ring- 
ing cheers,  there  may  have  been  three  pints  of  water  in 
his  canoe — not  more.  Indeed,  the  feat  seemed  so  easy  that 
the  many  onlookers  who  were  not  river-men  decided  hastily 
that  the  perils  of  Dog-leg  had  been  grossly  overrated.  Mr. 
Biddle  shook  hands  with  Young  Joe,  and  said,  pontifically : 

"She's  yours,  my  son." 

At  this  moment  Shorty  approached  Young  Joe,  and  ex- 
claimed : 

327 


Some  Happenings 

"I  couldn't  hev  done  it  slicker  myself." 

Young  Joe,  had  he  been  as  ingenuous  and  innocent  as  he 
appeared,  might  have  acclaimed  in  this  speech  some  sports- 
manlike feeling.  He  recognised,  instead,  what  is  called  in 
the  West  a  ''gallery  play."  He  knew,  in  every  fibre  of  his 
small,  neat  body,  that  this  giant  had  deliberately  plotted  to 
kill  him.  But  he  smiled  as  he  repHed,  not  loudly,  but  very 
clearly : 

"Will  you  do  it,  Shorty?*'  ^ 

"How's  that?" 

"Will  you  run  Dog-leg?" 

Pheenie  answered  for  the  big  fellow : 

'*No— he  won't!" 

The  crowd  formed  a  circle  round  these  three.  For  a 
moment  the  silence  became  tense.     Then  Pheenie  laughed. 

Shorty  may  have  been  half -drunk,  but  he  grasped  the 
sense  of  the  situation.  To  refuse  this  challenge  after  Phee- 
nie's  laugh  meant  a  headlong  fall  from  a  pinnacle  of  conceit 
and  self-advertisement. 

He  said,  hoarsely,  "O'  course  I'll  do  it." 

"When?"  asked  Pheenie. 

"Right  now." 

The  fickle  crowd  applauded.  The  tension  relaxed.  To 
anybody  with  Shorty's  experience  the  running  of  Dog-leg 
was  a  ha'penny  matter.  The  river-men  began  to  chaff  the 
big  fellow.  What  girl  would  he  ask  to  share  his  joy-ride? 
And  so  forth.  Young  Joe,  however,  with  the  keen  eye  of  a 
trapper,  marked  signs  which  escaped  the  crowd — the  shifty 
glance,  the  pendulous  lower  lip,  the  "hunted"  expression. 
He  said,  quietly: 

"Do  it  to-morrer,  Shorty." 

"Right  now,"  repeated  Mr.  Sissons. 

He  strode  off,  followed  by  half  a  dozen  friends.  The 
crowd  moved  slowly  back  to  the  bluff  crowning  the  rapids. 
328 


Dog-Leg  Rapids 

But  Pheenie  and  Joe  remained  near  the  landing-place,  just 
below  the  whirlpool. 

*'Vm  kinder  sorry,"  said  Joe. 

"I  ain't,"  said  Pheenie,  fiercely. 

Those  on  the  bluff  described  more  or  less  adequately  what 
followed.  A  canoe  glided  swiftly  into  "Battledore."  Mere 
gravitation  carried  it  safely  to  the  edge  of  ''Shuttlecock." 
But  here,  where  the  river  turned  sharply,  one — only  one — 
firm  shove  of  the  pole  was  necessary,  where  a  rock  starkly 
rose  out  of  mid-channel.  And  here — according  to  the  testi- 
mony of  experts — Shorty  made  his  first  blunder.  He  pushed 
too  hard  against  the  rock.  The  canoe  raced  into  "Shuttle- 
cock" slightly  aslant,  instead  of  straight.  Mere  balance, 
bred  by  long  experience,  averted  disaster,  for  the  canoe  was 
rocking  badly  as  it  sped  towards  the  narrow  passage.  Shorty, 
stabbing  with  his  pole,  tried  to  steady  his  frail  craft.  The 
canoe  plunged,  like  a  runaway  horse.  A  synchronised  gasp 
of  dismay  came  from  the  spectators.  Mr.  Biddle  remarked, 
oracularly : 

"He's  a  goner." 

It  was  obvious,  even  to  the  children  present,  that  Shorty 
had  lost  his  head.  Mere  luck,  toper's  luck,  carried  him 
through  the  narrows.  The  canoe  must  have  grazed  the 
rocks  a  dozen  times,  but  the  volume  of  water  held  it  on  its 
course. 

The  skirting  of  the  whirlpool  remained. 

By  this  time  the  canoe  was  in  sight  of  Young  Joe  and 
Pheenie.  It  no  longer  floated  like  a  dogwood  petal  upon  the 
maddened  stream.  Much  water  had  been  shipped,  buoyancy 
had  gone.    Young  Joe  shouted : 

"Push  for  all  yer  worth!" 

The  roar  of  the  falls  was  in  Shorty's  ears.  If  he  heard, 
he  was  too  palsied  by  terror  to  act.  He  pushed  feebly ;  his 
pole  slipped;  to  the  amazement  of  the  beholders  he  fell 

329 


Some  Happenings 

overboard,  and  the  canoe,  relieved  of  his  weight,  danced 
blithely  on  upon  a  steadier  keel.  To  use  a  phrase  of  the 
hunting-field  the  boss  of  a  big  lumber-camp  had  "cut  a 
voluntary."  But  friends  and  enemies  knew  that  he  was  a 
powerful  swimmer,  well  able  to  strike  out  boldly  for  the 
shore. 

Shorty  made  no  such  attempt.  In  falling  overboard  his 
head  must  have  struck  a  rock.  His  huge  body  rose  to  the 
surface  with  no  more  initiative  about  it  than  a  log.  Young 
Joe  slipped  off  his  coat. 

"No — ye  don't!"  screamed  Pheenie,  clutching  at  him. 

He  said,  sharply: 

"We  done  it." 

Then  he  tore  himself  loose  and  plunged  into  the  river. 

If  the  crowd  thirsted  for  excitement,  that  lust  was  likely 
to  be  gratified.  Time  became  the  essense  of  the  situation. 
Could  Young  Joe  reach  Shorty  before  he  was  sucked  into 
the  whirlpool?  No  human  being  could  escape  alive  from 
the  clutch  of  that.  Joe  shot  across  the  stream,  using  the 
side-stroke.  Shorty  sank.  Was  he  sucked  under?  Joe 
dived  for  him. 

And  then  a  great  shout  went  up  from  the  bluff.  Joe 
appeared  with  his  quarry.  He  turned  upon  his  back,  grasp- 
ing Shorty's  huge  head  with  his  hands,  holding  him  be- 
tween his  knees.  Inch  by  inch,  skill  and  courage  prevailed. 
Another  shout,  louder  than  the  first,  died  away  amongst  the 
tops  of  the  spruces.  Pheenie  discovered  that  she  was  shed- 
ding the  gladdest  tears  of  her  life. 

But  later,  when  she  whispered  proudly,  "Oh,  Jodie,  I'm 
ever  so  glad  you  saved  him!"  Young  Joe  said,  with  a  hu- 
mour wasted  upon  his  future  wife,  "Why,  Pheenie,  if  I 
hadn't,  could  I  hev  collected  them  bets?" 


330 


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